ao&.b 

MU7t 

JWt 


D KA11  I 
OF  THE 

U N I VERS  ITY 
Of  ILLINOIS 
Received  by  bequest  from 
Albert  H.  Lybyer 
Professor  of  History 
University  of  Illinois 
1916-1949 


OfeS’tfail ■ EL\T  ^3  • ' i3  i O^! ' Xlltt 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016 


https://archive.org/details/treasuresfrompro00mcal_0 


FRANK  McALPINE. 


TREASURES 


FROM  THE 


WITH 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES, 

BY 

PROF.  FRANK  McALPINE. 


ILLUSTRATED. 


Sold  by  Subscription  Only, 


CHICAGO  AND  PHILADELPHIA: 

ELLIOTT  & BEEZLEY. 
1886. 


COP',RIGHT,  1883,  Br 


ELLIOTT  & BEEZLEi. 


MANUFACTURED  BY 

Elliott  & Beezley’s  Publishing  House, 
Chicago  and  Philadelphia. 


?of.  /' 
Mu  7^ 
t 8S  3° 


REMOTE  STORAGE 


HSTTEODU  CTIOE". 


MILTON  has  said : “ A good  book  is  the  precious  life- 

blood of  a master-spirit,  embalmed  and  treasured  up  on 
purpose  to  a life  beyond  life.  ” For  our  readers,  we  have  tried 
to  gather  such  selections  only  as  are  worthy  to  he  “ embalmed 
and  treasured  up.  ” 

If  we  have  succeeded  in  avoiding  anything  like  a text- 
book upon  literature,  we  have  carried  out  the  plan  of  our 
work.  If  we  have  succeeded  in  gathering  up  selections  that 
are  worthy  of  being  called  treasures,  we  have  accomplished 
the  object  that  we  had  in  view.  Then  if  our  book  finds  a 
warm  place  in  the  heart  of  the  reading  public,  our  most 
earnest  desire  will  be  fully  gratified. 

Literature  may  be  viewed  as  a mighty  river  taking  its 
rise  in  the  dim  past  and  running  parallel  with  the  crystal 
stream  of  time.  In  tracing  this  river  from  its  source  to 
where  it  flows  into  the  great  ocean  of  the  present,  we  enter 
the  province  of  a text-book  upon  literature.  We  should  view 
the  tributaries  from  the  different  tongues  of  the  world, — 
their  nature  and  the  influence  they  have  had  upon  the  prog- 
ress and  usefulness  of  the  main  channel.  We  should  note 
this  magnificent  river  pausing  in  classic  Greece  “ to  purify  it- 
self and  gain  strength  of  wave  for  due  occasion,”  and  at 
Borne, — Borne  that  sat  on  her  seven  hills  and  from  her  throne 


4 


INTRODUCTION. 


of  glory  ruled  the  world — to  receive  the  tributary  that  added 
vigorous  grandeur  to  its  flow.  We  should  examine  its  trib- 
utaries from  tongues  that  spoke  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile,  and 
in  India  and  China,  and  on  the  sacred  plains  of  Judea ; from 
the  thoughtful  fields  of  Germany,  central  Europe  and  fash- 
ionable France,  till  finally  it  was  swelled  to  almost  boundless 
proportions  and  influence  by  that  greatest  of  all  tributaries, 
— the  one  from  the  English  tongue. 

But  we  have  viewed  the  literary  world  as  a bountiful  har- 
vest from  which  to  gather  abundant  stores  of  mental  food. 
After  having  taken  a careful  survey  of  the  entire  field,  sickle 
in  hand,  we  have  gone  to  the  most  fertile  spots  and  gathered 
sheaves  of  the  tallest,  ripest  and  most  perfect  grain.  As  the 
judicious  husbandman  saves  the  best  seed  in  anticipation  of 
an  improved  and  abundant  harvest,  so  these  sheaves  of  tall, 
ripe  grain — this  “ precious  life-blood  ” of  the  “master-spirits” 
—we  have  garnered  up  in  Treasures  from  the  Prose  World. 

Frank  Me  Alpine. 


CONTENTS. 


Advice  to  a Would-Be  Criminal 

- Victor  Hugo  - 

65 

AdmIration  op  Genius 

Lord  Lytton 

72 

At  the  Open  Window 

- B.  F.  Taylor  - 

75 

And  Such  a Change  - 

B.  F.  Taylor 

76 

Autumn  at  Concord,  Mass. 

Hawthorne 

175 

Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table 

Holmes 

218 

Anglo-Saxon  Influences  of  Home  - 

- Geo.  P.  Marsh 

331 

Ariel  Among  the  Shoals,  The 

Cooper 

345 

Aborgines  of  America 

- Bancroft 

362 

Beauty 

Emerson 

154 

Buds  and  Bird  Voices  - 

- Hawthorne 

170 

Blind  Preacher 

William  Wirt 

195 

Bald-Headed  Man,  The 

- Little  Bock  Gazette  355 

Child’s  Dream  of  a Star,  A 

Dickens 

27 

Candid  Man,  The  - 

- Lord  Lytton 

128 

Changes  of  Matter  - 

- Yeomans 

151 

Character  of  Washington 

- J efferson 

156 

Christianity  - 

Charles  Phillips  - 

206 

Children  and  Their  Education 

- Horace  Mann  - 

290 

Chesterfield’s  Letters  to  His  Son 

Chesterfield 

392 

Death  of  Little  Jo 

- Dickens  - 

30 

Dog-Days 

Gail  Hamilton  - 

399 

Eleonora  .... 

- Edgar  A.  Poe 

208 

English  Language  - 

Wm.  Mathews 

215 

Evening  Walk  in  Virginia 

- J . K . Paulding 

357 

6 


CONTENTS, 


Wharton  - 

- 

- 

Cooper 

384 

Fall  of  the  Leaf,  The 

- 

Ruskin  - 

106 

Grave,  The  - 

- 

Irving 

43 

Glass  of  Cold  Water,  A - 

- 

J.  B.  Gough  - 

68 

Good  Man’s  Day,  A 

- 

- 

Bishop  Hall 

228 

Goodrich  Jones,  Jr.,  To 

- 

J.  G.  Holland 

234 

Gentle  Hand 

- 

- 

T.  S.  Arthur 

341 

How  Tom  Sawyer  Whitewashed  His  Fence  Mark  Twain  - 

36 

Happiness  .... 

- 

- 

Colton 

55 

Heart  Beneath  a Stone,  A 

- 

Victor  Hugo  - 

62 

Home 

- 

- 

T.  S.  Arthur 

110 

Happiness  in  Solitude 

- 

J.  J.  Rosseau  - 

140 

How  Curious  it  is 

- 

- 

H.  P.  Shillaber  - 

148 

Happiness  of  Temper  - 

- 

Goldsmith 

316 

Head-Stone,  The  - 

- 

- 

Wilson 

380 

Indian  Summer  - 

- 

B . F.  Taylor  - 

17 

In  the  Garret 

- 

- 

Knickerbocker 

328 

Joan  of  Arc  - 

- 

Thomas  DeQuincy 

144 

Jerusalem  - - - 

- 

- 

Benj.  Disraeli 

222 

Last  Days  of  Pompeii 

- 

Lord  Lytton 

123 

Love  of  Life  and  Age  - 

- 

- 

Goldsmith  - 

138 

Little  Eva  - - - 

- 

Harriet  B.  Stoive 

267 

Lily’s  Ride  - 

- 

- 

Judge  Tour  gee 

281 

Little  Woman,  The  - 

- 

Dickens 

310 

Letters  - - - 

- 

- 

Mitchell  - 

313 

Mother’s  Vacant  Chair 

- 

Talmage 

34 

Music  of  Child  Laughter,  The 

- 

- 

— 

56 

Musing  by  the  Fire  - 

- 

B.  F.  Taylor 

78 

Marriage  - - - 

- 

- 

Jeremy  Taylor 

192 

My  Mother’s  Bible  - 

- 

. 

244 

Mocking  Bird 

- 

- 

Alexander  Wilson 

246 

Maxims  of  George  Washington  - 

- 

Washington 

306 

Napoleon  Buonaparte  - 

- 

- 

Victor  Hugo  - 

60 

Our  Revolutionary  Fathers 

- 

Webster 

50 

CONTENTS, 


7 


Old-Fashioned  Mother,  The 

B.  F.  Taylor  - 

79 

Omens  ----- 

- 

Sir  Humphrey  Davy  101 

Old  Churchyaed,  The  - 

MacDonald 

109 

Old  Age 

- 

Emerson 

155 

On  Revenge  - 

Samuel  J ohnson 

186 

Old  Age  

- 

Theo.  Parker 

188 

Order  in  Nature  - 

Yeomans 

199 

Of  Beauty  - 

- 

Lord  Bacon 

280 

Our  Old  Grandmother  - 

Anonymous 

318 

Our  Burden  - - - - 

- 

Addison 

323 

Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat,  The 

Bret  Harte 

338 

Poetry  and  Mystery  of  the  Sea 

- 

Dr . Greenwood  - 

19 

Paradise  on  Earth,  A - 

Victor  Hugo  - 

59 

Personality  and  Uses  of  a Laugh 

- 

Anonymous 

100 

Precipices  of  the  Alps  - 

Buskin  - 

106 

Parents  

- 

T.  S.  Arthur 

113 

Puritans,  The  - 

T,  B.  Macaulay 

149 

Poor  Richard  - 

- 

Dr.  Franklin 

158 

Putting  up  Stoves 

Anomymous 

166 

Plea  for  the  Erring,  A - 

- 

Wm.  Mathews 

177 

Progress  of  Sin,  The 

- 

Jeremy  Taylor 

190 

Penn’s  Advice  to  His  Children  - 

- 

Wm.  Penn 

203 

Pictures  of  Swiss  Scenery  and  of 

THE  1 

City 

of  Venice  - 

- 

B.  Disraeli 

227 

Pledge  with  Wine 

- 

Anonymous 

270 

Prosperity  and  Adversity  - 

- 

Lord  Bacon 

288 

Pictures  - 

- 

- 

H.  P,  Shillaber  - 

305 

Rural  Life  in  England 

- 

Irving 

44 

Rural  Life  in  Sweden  - 

- 

- 

H.  W.  Longfellow 

90 

Rebecca’s  Description  of  the  Siege  - 

Scott 

252 

Schoolmaster,  The 

- 

- 

Verplauck  - 

69 

Scene  at  the  Natural  Bridge 

- 

Burritt  - 

96 

Sky,  The  - 

- 

- 

Buskin 

107 

Spider  and  the  Bee,  The  - 

- 

Jonathan  Swift 

117 

Spring  ----- 

- 

- 

Hawthorne 

174 

•% 


8 


CONTENTS, 


Shakespere’s  Style  - 

Wm,  Mathews 

182 

Skylark,  The  - 

- Jeremy  Taylor 

194 

Silent  Forces  - 

Tyndall  - 

282 

Studies  - - 

- Lord  Bacon 

279 

Tramp,  Tramp,  Tramp 

J.  G.  Holland 

241 

Two  Races  of  Men,  The 

- Charles  Lamb 

273 

Thoughts  on  Various  Subjects  - 

J onathan  Swift 

334 

Uncle  Tom  Reads  His  Testament  - 

H.  B.  Stowe 

268 

Voices  of  the  Dead  - 

E.  H.  Chapin 

376 

Work 

Thomas  Carlyle 

81 

Welcome  to  Lafayette 

Edward  Everett 

203 

Works  of  Creation,  The 

- Addison 

260 

Wonders  of  an  Atom 

Hunt 

245 

INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


Addison,  Joseph. 


Our  Burdens, 

The  Works  of  Creation, 

323 

260 

Arthur,  T.  S. 

Home,  .... 

Parents,  - 
Gentle  Hand, 

110 

113 

341 

Bacon,  Lord. 

Studies,  .... 

Beauty,  .... 

Prosperity  and  Adversity, 

- 279 
280 

- 288 

Bancroft,  George. 

The  Aborigines  of  America, 

362 

Burritt,  Elihu. 

Scene  at  the  Natural  Bridge, 

- 96 

Carlisle,  Thomas. 
Work,  - 

81 

Chapin,  E.  H. 

Voices  of  the  Bead,  - 

- 376 

Chesterfield,  Lord. 
Letters  to  his  Son,  - 

392 

392 


10  INDEX  OP  AUTHORS. 


Cooper,  J.  Fenimore. 

Ariel  Among  the  Shoals, 

Escape  of  Harvey  Birch  and  Captain  Wharton, 

- 345 
384 

Colton,  Walter. 

Happiness,  - 

- 55 

Davy,  Sir  Humphrey. 
Omens,  - 

- 101 

De  Quincy,  Thomas. 

Joan  of  Arc,  ------ 

144 

Dickens,  Chas. 

Death  of  Little  Jo, 

Child’s  Dream  of  a Star, 

The  Little  Woman,  ----- 

30 
- 27 
310 

Disraeli,  Benj. 

Jerusalem,  - 

Pictures  of  Swiss  Scenery  and  the  City  of  Venice, 

- 222 
227 

Emerson,  Ralph  W. 

Beauty,  ------ 

Old  Age,  ------ 

- 154 
155 

Everett,  Edward. 

Welcome  to  Lafayette,  - 

- 202 

Franklin,  Benjamin. 

Poor  Richard,  - 

158 

Gough,  J.  B. 

A Glass  of  Cold  Water,  - - - - 

68 

Goldsmith,  Oliver. 

Love  of  Life  and  Age,  - - - - 

Happiness  of  Temper,  - - - 

- 138 
316 

Greenwood,  Dr. 

Poetry  and  Mystery  of  the  Sea, 

- 19 

INDEX  OF  AUTHOKS, 


II 


Hall,  Bishop. 

A Good  Man’s  Day,  .....  228 
Hawthorne,  Nathaniel. 

Autumn  at  Concord,  Mass.,  - - - - 175 

Buds  and  Bird  Voices,  - - . 170 

Spring,  -------  174 

Harte,  Bret. 

The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat,  ...  338 

Hamilton,  Gail, 

Dog-Days,  ------  397 

Holmes,  0.  W. 

Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table,  - - - 218 

Holland,  J.  G. 

To  Goodrich  Jones,  Jr.,  ...  - 234 

Tramp,  Tramp,  Tramp,  -----  241 

Hugo,  Victor. 

Advice  to  a Would-be  Criminal,  65 

Napoleon  Buonaparte,  - - - - - 60 

A Heart  Beneath  a Stone,  62 

A Paradise  on  Earth,  - - - - - 59 

Hunt,  Leigh. 

Wonders  of  an  Atom,  - - - - 245 

Irving,  Washington. 

The  Grave,  - - - - - 43 

Bural  Life  in  England,  - - - - - 44 

In  the  Garret,  -----  328 

Jefferson,  Thomas. 

Character  of  Washington,  - - » - 156 

Johnson,  Dr.  Samuel. 

On  Bevenge,  - 186 


12 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Lamb,  Charles. 

The  Two  Races  of  Men,  - 

- 273 

Longfellow,  H.  W. 

Rural  Life  in  Sweden,  - 

- 90 

Lytton,  Lord  Bulwer. 

Last  Bays  of  Pompeh,  - 

The  Candid  Man,  - 

Admiration  of  Genius,  ... 

123 

- 128 
72 

Mann,  Horace. 

Children  and  Their  Education,  - 

- 290 

Mathews,  Wm. 

English  Language,  - 
A Plea  for  the  Erring,  - 
Shakespere’s  Style,  - 

215 
* 177 
182 

Macaulay,  T.  B. 

The  Puritans,  - 

- 149 

MacDonald,  Geo. 

The  Old  Churchyard, 

109 

Marsh,  Geo.  P. 

Anglo-Saxon  Influences  of  Home, 

rH 

CO 

CO 

Mitchell,  Donald  G. 

Letters,  ■ 

313 

Parker,  Theodore. 
Old  Age,  - 

- 188 

Paulding,  Jas.  K. 

An  Evening  Walk  in  Virginia,  - 

357 

Penn,  Wm. 

Penn’s  Advice  to  His  Children,  - 

CO 

o 

cq 

Phillips,  Charles. 
Christianity,  - 

206 

INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

/ 

13 

Poe,  Edgar  A. 

Eleonora,  - 

208 

Ruskin,  John. 

The  Fall  of  the  Leaf,  - 

The  Sky,  ------ 

The  Precipices,  - 

106 
- 107 
106 

Rosseau,  J.  J. 

Happiness  in  Solitude,  - 

140 

Shillaber,  H.  P. 

Pictures,  ----- 

How  Curious  it  is, 

305 
- 148 

Stowe,  Harriet  Beecher. 

Little  Eva,  ----- 
Uncle  Tom  Reads  his  Testament, 

267 
- 268 

Scott,  Sir  Walter. 

Rebecca’s  Description  of  the  Siege,  - 

252 

Swift,  Jonathan. 

Thoughts  on  Various  Subjects,  - 
The  Spider  and  Bee,  - 

- 334 

117 

Taylor,  B.  F. 

At  the  Open  Window,  - 
Indian  Summer,  - 

The  Old-Fashioned  Mother,  - 

Musing  by  the  Fire,  - 
And  Such  a Change,  - 

- 75 
17 

- 79 
78 

- 76 

Twain,  Mark. 

How  Tom  Sawyer  Whitewashed  his  Fence,  - 

36 

Tourgee,  A.  W. 
Lily’s  Ride, 


- 281 


14 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


Taylor,  Jeremy. 


Marriage,  - 

Progress  of  Sin,  - 
The  Skylark, 

192 
- 190 
194 

Talmage,  T.  De  Witt. 

Mother’s  Vacant  Chair,  - 

- 34 

Tyndall,  John. 
Silent  Forces, 

232 

Verplauck, 

The  Schoolmaster, 

- 69 

Wirt,  William. 

The  Blind  Preacher, 

195 

Webster,  Daniel. 

Our  Revolutionary  Fathers, 

- 50 

Washington,  George. 
Maxims, 

Wilson,  Alexander. 
The  Mocking  Bird, 
The  Head -Stone, 

306 

- 246 
380 

Yeoman,  Prof. 

Order  in  Nature, 
Changes  of  Matter, 

199 

- 151 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES. 


* 


Charles  Dickens,  - 24 

Washington  Irving,  - - - - - .40 

Victor  Hugo,  ------  57 

Benjamin  Franklin  Taylor,  - - - - -73 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow,  88 

John  Buskin,  ------  105 

Lord  Lytton,  ------  121 

Oliver  Goldsmith,  - - - - - - 136 

Balph  Waldo  Emerson,  - - - - - 152 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  - - - - - 168 

Dr.  Samuel  Johnson,  - - - - 184 

Edward  Everett,  - 200 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  - - - - - 216 

Josiah  Gilbert  Holland,  - 233 

Walter  Scott,  - 249 

Harriet  Beecher  Stowe,  - 265 

Horace  Mann,  ------  289 

Donald  G.  Mitchell,  -----  312 

Bret  Harte,  -------  336 

George  Bancroft,  - - - . - 360 


JJrom  the  hour  of  the  inbention  of  printing,  hooks, 
ant)  not  kings,  toere  to  rule  in  the  bmrlt).  IBeapons 
forget)  in  the  mint),  keeit-ebget),  anti  brighter  than  a sun- 
beam, toere  to  supplant  the  stoorb  ant)  the  battle-axe. 
$ooks!  light-houses  built  on  the  sea  of  time!  $5ooks! 
bp  to  hose  soreerp  the  to  hole  pageantrp  of  the  toorlb's  his- 
torp  utobes  in  solemn  proressioit  before  the  epes.  Jfrom 
their  pages  great  souls  look  hobm  in  all  their  granbenr, 
anbimmeb  bp  the  faults  ant)  follies  of  earthlp  existenre, 
:onsecrafo:i  bp  time. 


TREASURES 


EBOM 

THE  PROSE  WORLD 


Indian  Summer, 

The  Year  has  paused  to  remember,  and  beautiful  her  memories 
are.  She  recalls  the  Spring;  how  soft  the  air!  And  the  Summer; 
how  deep  and  warm  the  sky ! And  the  harvest ; how  pillar’d  and 
golden  the  clouds ! And  the  rainbows  and  the  sunsets ; how  gor- 
geous are  the  woods ! 

Indian  Summer  is  nature’s  “sober,  second  thought,”  and  to  me, 
the  sweetest  of  the  thinking.  A veil  of  golden  gauze  trails  through 
the  air;  the  woods  en  deshabille , are  gay  with  the  hectic  flushes  of 
the  Fall;  and  the  bright  sun,  relenting,  comes  meekly  back  again, 
as  if  he  would  not  go  to  Capricorn.  He  has  a kindly  look;  he  no 
longer  dazzles  one’s  eyes  out,  but  has  a sunset  softness  in  his  face, 
and  fairly  blushes  at  the  trick  he  meditated.  Round,  red  Sun ! rich 
ruby  in  the  jewelry  of  God!  it  sets  as  big  as  the  woods;  and  ten 
acres  of  forest,  in  the  distance,  are  relieved  upon  the  great  disc — a 
rare  device  upon  a glorious  medallion.  The  sweet  south  wind  has 
come  again,  and  breathes  softly  through  the  woods,  till  they  rustle 
like  a banner  of  crimson  and  gold;  and  waltzes  gaily  with  the  dead 


2 


18 


TEEASUEES  FEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


leaves  that  strew  the  ground,  and  whirls  them  quite  away  some- 
times, in  its  frolic,  over  the  fields  and  the  fences,  and  into  the 
brook,  in  whose  little  eddies  they  loiter  on  the  way,  and  never  get 
“down  to  the  sea”  at  all. 

Who  wonders  that,  with  this  mirage  of  departed  Summer  in 
sight,  the  peach  trees  sometimes  lose  their  reckoning,  fancy  Winter, 
pale  fly-leaf  in  the  book  of  Time,  has  somehow  slipped  out,  and  put 
forth  their  rosy  blossoms  only  to  be  carried  away,  to-day  or  to-mor- 
row, by  the  blasts  of  November. 

And  with  the  sun  and  the  wind,  here  are  the  birds  once  more. 
A blue  bird  warbles  near  the  house,  as  it  used  to  do;  the  sparrows 
are  chirping  in  the  bushes,  and  the  wood-robins  flicker  like  flakes 
of  fire  through  the  trees.  Now  and  then  a crimson  or  yellow  leaf 
winnows  its  way  slowly  down  through  the  smoky  light,  and  “the 
sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard  ” in  the  still  woods.  The  brook 
that  a little  while  ago  stole  along  in  the  shadow,  rippling  softly  round 
the  boughs  that  trailed  idly  in  its  waters,  now  twinkles  all  the  way, 
on  its  journey  down  to  the  lake.  It  is  Saturday  night  of  Nature  and 
the  Year — 

“Their  breathing  moment  on  the  bridge  where  Time 
Of  light  and  darkness,  forms  an  arch  sublime.” 

There  is  nothing  more  to  be  done;  everything  is  packed  up; 
the  wardrobe  of  Spring  and  Summer  is  all  folded  in  those  little  rus- 
set and  rude  cases,  and  laid  away  here  and  there,  some  in  the  earth, 
and  some  in  the  water,  and  lost,  as  we  say,  but  after  all,  no  more 
lost  than  is  the  little  infant,  when,  laid  upon  a pillow  it  is  rocked 
and  swung,  this  way  and  that,  in  the  arms  of  a careful  mother.  So 
the  dying,  smiling  Year  is  all  ready  to  go. 

“Aye,  thou  art  welcome,  heaven’s  delicious  breath, 

When  woods  begin  to  wear  the  crimson  leaf, 

And  suns  grow  meek,  and  the  meek  suns  grow  brief, 

And  the  year  smiles  as  it  draws  near  its  death. 

Winds  of  the  sunny  south!  oh,  still  delay, 

In  the  gay  woods  and  in  the  golden  air, 

Like  to  a good  old  age,  released  from  care 
Journeying  in  long  serenity,  away. 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


19 


“With  such  a bright,  late  quiet,  would  that  I 

Might  wear  out  life  like  thee,  ’mid  bowers  and  brooks : 
And  dearer  yet,  the  sunshine  of  kind  looks, 

And  music  of  kind  voices  ever  nigh. 

And  when  my  last  sand  twinkles  in  the  glass, 

Pass  silently  from  men  as  thou  dost  pass.” 


Poetry  and  Mystery  of  the  Sea. 


[Our  Treasures  would  not  be  complete  without  the  following  beautifully  sublime 
selection  from  the  pen  of  Dr.  Greenwood.  Kind  reader,  if  you  love  poetry  and  beauti- 
ful word  pictures,  you  can  never  weary  in  reading  the  following:] 

“The  sea  is  His,  and  He  made  it,”  cries  the  Psalmist  of  Israel, 
in  one  of  those  bursts  of  enthusiasm  in  which  he  so  often  expresses 
the  whole  of  a vast  subject  by  a few  simple  words.  Whose  else, 
indeed,  could  it  be,  and  by  "^hom  else  could  it  have  been  made? 
Who  else  can  heave  its  tides  and  appoint  its  bounds  ? Who  else  can 
urge  its  mighty  waves  to  madness  with  the  breath  and  wings  of  the 
tempest,  and  then  speak  to  it  again  in  a master’s  accents  and  bid  it 
be  still?  Who  else  could  have  peopled  it  with  its  countless  inhabit- 
ants, and  caused  it  to  bring  forth  its  various  productions,  and  filled 
it  from  its  deepest  bed  to  its  expanded  surface,  filled  it  from  its  cen- 
ter to  its  remotest  shores,  filled  it  to  the  brim  with  beauty,  and 
mystery,  and  power?  Majestic  ocean!  Glorious  sea!  No  created 
being  rules  thee  or  made  thee. 

What  is  there  more  sublime  than  the  trackless,  desert,  all- sur- 
rounding, unfathomable  sea?  What  is  there  more  peacefully  sublime 
than  the  calm,  gentle-heaving,  silent  sea?  What  is  there  more  terri- 
bly sublime  than  the  angry,  dashing,  foaming  sea?  Power — resist- 
less, overwhelming  power — is  its  attribute  and  its  expression,  whether 
in  the  careless,  conscious  grandeur  of  its  deep  rest,  or  the  wild  tumult 
of  its  excited  wrath.  It  is  awful  when  its  crested  waves  rise  up  to 
make  a compact  with  the  black  clouds  and  the  howling  winds, 
and  the  thunder  and  the  thunderbolt,  and  they  sweep  on,  in  the 


20 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


joy  of  their  dread  alliance,  to  do  the  Almighty’s  bidding.  And 
it  is  awful,  too,  when  it  stretches  its  broad  level  out  to  meet  in 
quiet  union  the  bended  sky,  and  show  in  the  line  of  meeting  the  vast 
rotundity  of  the  world.  There  is  majesty  in  its  wide  expanse,  sep- 
arating and  enclosing  the  great  continents  of  the  earth,  occupying 
two-thirds  of  the  whole  surface  of  the  globe,  penetrating  the  land 
with  its  bays  and  secondary  seas,  and  receiving  the  constantly  pour- 
ing tribute  of  every  river  of  every  shore.  There  is  majesty  in  its 
fulness,  never  diminishing,  and  never  increasing.  There  is  majesty 
in  its  integrity,  for  its  whole  vast  substance  is  uniform  in  its  local 
unity,  for  there  is  hut  one  ocean,  and  the  inhabitants  of  any  one 
maritime  spot  may  visit  the  inhabitants  of  any  other  in  the  wide 
world.  Its  depth  is  sublime;  who  can  sound  it?  Its  strength  is 
sublime;  what  fabric  of  man  can  resist  it?  Its  voice  is  sublime, 
whether  in  the  prolonged  song  of  its  ripple  or  the  stern  music  of  its 
roar — whether  it  utters  its  hollow  and  melancholy  tones  within  a 
labyrinth  of  wave-worn  caves,  or  thunders  at  the  base  of  some  huge 
promontory,  or  heats  against  a toiling  vessel’s  sides,  lulling  the 
voyager  to  rest  with  the  strains  of  its  wild  monotony,  or  dies  away 
with  the  calm  and  fading  twilight,  in  gentle  murmurs  on  some  shel- 
tered shore. 

The  sea  possesses  beauty  in  richness  of  its  own ; it  borrows  it 
from  earth,  and  air,  and  heaven.  The  clouds  lend  it  the  various 
dyes  of  their  wardrobe,  and  throw  down  upon  it  the  broad  masses 
of  their  shadows  as  they  go  sailing  and  sweeping  by.  The  rainbow 
laves  in  it  its  many-colored  feet.  The  sun  loves  to  visit  it,  and  the 
moon,  and  the  glittering  brotherhood  of  planets  and  stars,  for  they 
delight  themselves  in  its  beauty.  The  sunbeams  return  from  it  in 
showers  of  diamonds  and  glances  of  fire ; the  moonbeams  find  in  it 
a pathway  of  silver,  where  they  dance  to  and  fro  with  the  breezes 
and  the  waves,  through  the  livelong  night.  It  has  a light,  too,  of 
its  own, — a soft  and  sparkling  light,  rivaling  the  stars;  and  often 
does  the  ship  which  cuts  its  surface  leave  streaming  behind  a milky 
way  of  dim  and  uncertain  luster,  like  that  which  is  shining  dimly 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


21 


above.  It  harmonizes  in  its  forms  and  sounds  both  with  the  night 
and  the  day.  It  cheerfully  reflects  the  light,  and  it  unites  solemnly 
with  the  darkness.  It  imparts  sweetness  to  the  music  of  men,  and 
grandeur  to  the  thunder  of  heaven.  What  landscape  is  so  beautiful 
as  one  upon  the  borders  of  the  sea?  The  spirit  of  its  loveliness  is 
from  the  waters  where  it  dwells  and  rests,  singing  its  spells  and 
scattering  its  charms  on  all  the  coasts.  What  rocks  and  cliffs  are 
so  glorious  as  -those  which  are  washed  by  the  chafing  sea?  What 
groves  and  fields  and  dwellings  are  so  enchanting  as  those  which 
stand  by  the  reflecting  sea? 

If  we  could  see  the  great  ocean  as  it  can  be  seen  by  no  mortal 
eye,  beholding  at  one  view  what  we  are  now  obliged  to  visit  in  detail 
and  spot  by  spot, — if  we  could,  from  a flight  far  higher  than  the 
eagle’s,  view  the  immense  surface  of  the  deep  all  spread  out  beneath 
us  like  a universal  chart — what  an  infinite  variety  such  a scene 
would  display ! Here  a storm  would  be  raging,  the  thunder  burst- 
ing, the  waters  boiling,  and  rain  and  foam  and  fire  all  mingling 
together;  and  here,  next  to  this  scene  of  magnificent  confusion,  we 
should  see  the  bright  blue  waves  glittering  in  the  sun  and  clapping 
their  hands  for  very  gladness.  Here  we  should  see  a cluster  of  green 
islands  set  like  jewels  in  the  bosom  of  the  sea;  and  there  we  should 
see  broad  shoals  and  gray  rocks,  fretting  the  billows  and  threaten- 
ing the  mariner.  Here  we  discern  a ship  propelled  by  the  steady 
wind  of  the  tropics,  and  inhaling  the  almost  visible  odors  which 
diffuse  themselves  around  the  Spice  Islands  of  the  east;  there  we 
should  behold  a vessel  piercing  the  cold  barrier  of  the  north,  strug- 
gling among  hills  and  fields  of  ice,  and  contending  witliWinter  in 
his  own  everlasting  dominion.  Nor  are  the  ships  of  man  the  only 
travelers  we  shall  perceive  upon  this  mighty  map  of  the  ocean. 
Flocks  of  sea-birds  are  passing  and  re-passing,  diving  for  their  food 
or  for  pastime,  migrating  from  shore  to  shore  with  unwearied  wing 
and  undeviating  instinct,  or  wheeling  and  swarming  around  the 
rocks  which  they  make  alive  and  vocal  by  their  numbers  and  their 
clanging  cries. 


22 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


We  shall  behold  new  wonders  and  riches  when  we  inves- 
tigate the  sea-shore.  We  shall  find  both  beauty  for  the  eye  and  food 
for  the  body,  in  the  varieties  of  shell-fish  which  adhere  in  myriads 
to  the  rocks  or  form  their  close,  dark  burrows  in  the  sands.  In 
some  parts  of  the  world  we  shall  see  those  houses  of  stone  which 
the  little  coral  insect  rears  up  with  patient  industry  from  the  bot- 
tom of  the  waters,  till  they  grow  into  formidable  rocks,  and  broad 
forests,  whose  branches  never  wave  and  whose  leaves  never  fall.  In 
other  parts  we  shall  see  those  pale,  glistening  pearls  which  adorn 
the  crowns  of  princes  and  are  woven  in  the  hair  of  beauty,  extorted 
by  the  relentless  grasp  of  man  from  the  hidden  stores  of  ocean. 
And  spread  round  every  coast  there  are  beds  of  flowers  and  thickets 
of  plants,  which  the  dew  does  not  nourish,  and  which  man  has  not 
sown,  nor  cultivated,  nor  reaped,  but  which  seem  to  belong  to  the 
floods  alone  and  the  denizens  of  the  floods,  until  they  are  thrown 
up  by  the  surges,  and  we  discover  that  even  the  dead  spoils  of  the 
fields  of  ocean  may  fertilize  and  enrich  the  fields  of  earth. 
They  have  a life,  and  a nourishment,  and  an  economy  of  their  own ; 
and  we  know  little  of  them  except  that  they  are  there  in  their  briny 
nurseries,  reared  up  into  luxuriance  by  what  would  kill,  like  a mor- 
tal poison,  the  vegetation  of  the  land. 

There  is  mystery  in  the  sea.  There  is  mystery  in  its  depths. 
It  is  unfathomed  and  perhaps  unfathomable.  Who  can  tell,  who 
shall  know,  how  near  its  pits  run  down  to  the  central  core  of  the 
world?  Who  can  tell  what  wells,  what  fountains  are  there  to 
which  the  fountains  of  the  earth  are  but  drops?  Who  shall  say 
whence  the  ocean  derives  those  inexhaustible  supplies  of  salt  which 
so  impregnate  its  waters  that  all  the  rivers  of  the  earth,  pouring 
into  it  from  the  time  of  the  creation,  have  not  been  able  to  freshen 
them?  What  un described  monsters,  what  unimaginable  shapes, 
may  be  roving  in  the  profoundest  places  of  the  sea,  never  seeking — 
and  perhaps,  from  their  nature,  never  able  to  seek — the  upper  waters 
and  expose  themselves  to  the  gaze  of  man ! What  glittering  riches, 
what  heaps  of  gold,  what  stores  of  gems  there  must  be  scattered  in 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


28 


lavish  profusion  in  the  ocean’s  lowest  hed!  What  spoils  from  all 
climates,  what  works  of  art  from  all  lands,  have  been  engulfed  by 
the  insatiable  and  reckless  waves ! Who  shall  go  down  to  examine 
and  reclaim  this  uncounted  and  idle  wealth?  Who  bears  the  keys 
of  the  deep? 

And  oh ! yet  more  affecting  to  the  heart,  and  mysterious  to  the 
mind,  what  companies  of  human  beings  are  locked  up  in  that  wide, 
weltering,  unsearchable  grave  of  the  sea ! Where  are  the  bodies  of 
those  lost  ones  over  whom  the  melancholy  waves  alone  have  been 
chanting  requiem  ? What  shrouds  were  wrapped  round  the  limbs 
of  beauty,  and  of  manhood,  and  of  placid  infancy,  when  they  were 
laid  on  the  dark  floor  of  that  secret  tomb?  Where  are  the  bones, 
the  relics  of  the  brave  and  the  timid,  the  good  and  the  had,  the 
parent,  the  child,  the  wife,  the  husband,  the  brother,  the  sister,  the 
lover,  which  have  been  tossed  and  scattered  and  buried  by  the  wash- 
ing, wasting,  wandering  sea?  The  journeying  winds  may  sigh  as 
year  after  year  they  pass  over  their  beds.  The  solitary  rain  cloud 
may  weep  in  darkness  over  the  mingled  remains  which  lie  strewed 
in  that  unwonted  cemetery.  But  who  shall  tell  the  bereaved  to 
what  spot  their  affections  may  cling?  And  where  shall  human  tears 
be  shed  throughout  that  solemn  sepulchre?  It  is  mystery  all. 
When  shall  it  be  resolved?  Who  shall  find  it  out?  Who  but  He 
to  whom  the  wildest  waves  listen  reverently,  and  to  whom  all  nature 
bows;  He  who  shall  one  day  speak  and  be  heard  in  ocean’s  pro- 
foundest  caves;  to  whom  the  deep,  even  the  lowest  deep,  shall  give 
up  its  dead,  when  the  sun  shall  sicken,  and  the  earth  and  the  isles 
shall  languish,  and  the  heavens  be  rolled  together  like  a scroll,  and 
there  shall  be  no  more  Sea. 


24 


TREASURES  FROM.  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


CHARLES  DICKENS. 


H ARLES  DICKENS  was  born  at  Landport,  a suburb  or 


Portsmouth,  England,  February  7,  J 812,  and  he  died  at 
his  home,  known  as  Gadshill  House,  near  Rochester,  Kent, 
June  9,  1870.  His  father,  John  Dickens,  was  a clerk  in  the 
navy  pay-office. 

Young  Dickens  received  part  of  his  education  at  Chat- 
ham, whither  his  parents  had  moved  in  1816.  His  princi- 
pal studies,  however,  were  “Robinson Crusoe,  ” “Don  Quixote,  ” 
“Gill  Bias,”  and  other  novels.  In  1822  his  father  became 
bankrupt  and  was  sent  to  prison  for  debt.  Charles’  family 
then  removed  to  London, where  the  boy  was  put  to  work  in 
a blacking  factory.  His  father,  now  relieved  by  a small 
legacy,  became  a reporter  for  the  “Morning  Chronicle.” 
After  attending  school  for  two  years,  the  boy  was  placed  in 
an  attorney’s  office.  Subsequently,  he  learned  short-hand 
and  became  Parliamentary  reporter  for  “The  True  Sun.” 
Four  years  later,  he  was  joined  to  the  staff  of  the  “Morning 
Chronicle.  ” 

At  the  age  of  nine,  Dickens  commenced  his  literary 
work  by  writing  a tragedy,  entitled  Misnar,  the  Sultan  of 
India.  In  1834,  appeared  his  first  published  sketch,  Mrs . 
Joseph  Porter  Over  the  Way.  A series  of  sketches  followed 
in  the  “Old  Monthly  Magazine,  ” over  the  signature  of  “Boz.” 
For  want  of  pay  these  sketches  were  discontinued,  and  after- 
ward resumed  in  the  “Chronicle”  where  they  attracted  much 
public  attention. 


CHAELES  DICKENS. 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


25 


In  1836  these  sketches  were  published  in  two  volumes. 
The  tide  of  Dickens’  popularity  had  now  fully  set  in,  and 
sketches  and  books  flowed  from  his  pen  like  the  steady 
movement  of  a mighty  river.  The  Posthumous  Papers  of  the 
Pickwick  Club,  upon  the  introduction  of  “Sam  Weller, ” in 
the  fifth  number,  grew  in  popularity,  and  upon  completion 
of  the  “Papers,”  the  author  was  famous. 

Oliver  Twist,  two  anonymous  volumes  entitled  Young 
Gentlemen  and  Young  Couples,  Memoirs  of  Joseph  Gramaldi, 
Nicholas  Nickleby,  Old  Curiosity  Shop,  and  Barnaby  Budge, 
quickly  followed. 

In  January,  1842,  in  company  with  bis  wife,  Dickens 
sailed  for  the  United  States,  and  on  the  22d,  landed  at 
Boston.  He  was  received  with  great  enthusiasm.  Upon  his 
return  home  he  published  American  Notes.  He  was  severely 
censured  for  his  exaggerations  in  speaking  of  American  cus- 
toms. In  1844  appeared  Martin  Chuzzlewit.  Then  followed 
a year’s  travel  in  Italy,  after  which  he  became  editor  of  the 
London  “Daily  News.”  In  the  “News”  appeared  his  Pic- 
tures from  Italy.  His  editorship  was  discontinued  at  the  end 
of  four  months.  Dornbey  and  Son  appeared  in  1848,  and 
David  Copperfield,  in  1850.  In  1850  he  established  “House- 
hold Words;”  this  being  discontinued,  in  1859  he  started 
“All  the  Year  Bound.”  At  this  time  he  wrote  a popular 
Child's  History  of  England.  Omitting  his  other  works  we 
will  only  record  the  productions  of  A Tale  of  Two  Cities, 
published  in  1860;  Great  Expectations,  1861;  Our  Mutual 
Friend , in  1865. 

Visiting  the  United  States  again  in  1867,  he  gave  public 
readings  from  his  works,  in  the  Eastern  and  Middle  States. 


26 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


Dickens  was  an  almost  perfect  actor,  and  his  laborious 
study  had  prepared  him  to  make  his  readings  in  this  country 
the  most  successful  part  of  his  life  work. 

In  a financial,  as  well  as  in  a literary  sense,  his  life 
work  was  eminently  successful.  The  Child's  Dream  of  a 
Star,  which  we  have  selected  for  this  book,  has  been  issued 
in  a beautiful,  illustrated  edition.  His  writings  are  so  well 
known  that  we  will  make  no  further  record  of  them  here. 

Dickens’  social  history  is  brief.  He  was  the  second  of 
eight  children.  In  1836,  he  married  Catherine,  the  eldest 
daughter  of  George  Hogarth,  an  editorial  writer  for  the 
“Chronicle.  ” They  had  seven  children,  but  in  1858  arranged 
a formal  separation,  the  reasons  for  which  have  never  been 
made  public.  He  once  refused  a baronetcy.  He  willed  that 
no  public  announcement  be  made  of  his  burial ; that  his 
name  be  inscribed  on  his  tomb  in  plain  English  letters,  with- 
out any  title.  He  wished  no  monument,  but  said  : “I  rest  my 
claims  to  the  remembrance  of  my  country  upon  my  published 
works.”  A grateful  world  will  remember  him.  Leaving 
The  Mystery  of  Edwin  Drood  unfinished,  he  died  at  the  time 
given  in  the  beginning  of  this  sketch,  from  a stroke  of  apo- 
plexy, and  was  buried  privately  in  the  poet’s  corner  of  West* 
minster  Abbey. 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


27 


The  Child’s  Dream  of  a Star. 

There  was  once  a child,  and  he  strolled  about  a good  deal,  and 
thought  of  a number  of  things.  He  had  a sister,  who  was  a child, 
too,  and  his  constant  companion.  These  two  used  to  wonder  all 
day  long.  They  wondered  at  the  beauty  of  the  flowers ; they  won- 
dered at  the  height  and  blueness  of  the  sky;  they  wondered  at  the 
depth  of  the  bright  water;  they  wondered  at  the  goodness  and  the 
power  of  God  who  made  the  lovely  world. 

They  used  to  say  to  one  another,  sometimes,  “Supposing  all  the 
children  upon  the  earth  were  to  die,  would  the  flowers,  and  the 
water,  and  the  sky  be  sorry?”  They  believed  they  would  be  sorry: 
“For,”  said  they,  “the  buds  are  the  children  of  the  flowers;  and  the 
little  playful  streams  that  gambol  down  the  hillsides  are  the  children 
of  the  waters;  and  the  smallest  bright  specks  playing  at  hide- 
and-seek  in  the  sky  all  night,  must  surely  be  the  children  of  the 
stars;  and  they  would  all  be  grieved  to  see  their  playmates,  the 
children  of  men,  no  more.”  There  was  one  clear,  shining  star  that 
used  to  come  out  in  the  sky  before  the  rest,  near  the  church- spire, 
above  the  graves.  It  was  larger  and  more  beautiful,  they  thought, 
than  all  the  others,  and  every  night  they  watched  for  it,  standing 
hand  in  hand  at  the  window.  Whoever  saw  it  first,  cried  out,  “I 
see  the  star!”  And  often  they  cried  out  both  together,  knowing  so 
well  when  it  would  rise,  and  where.  So  they  grew  to  be  such 
friends  with  it,  that  before  lying  down  in  their  beds,  they  always 
looked  out  once  again,  to  bid  it  good-night;  and  when  they  were 
turning  round  to  sleep,  they  used  to  say,  “God  bless  the  star!” 

But  while  she  was  still  very  young,  0,  very,  very  young,  the 
sister  drooped,  and  came  to  be  so  weak  that  she  could  no  longer 
stand  in  the  window  at  night;  and  then  the  child  looked  sadly  out 
by  himself,  and  when  he  saw  the  star,  turned  round  and  said  to  the 
patient,  pale  face  on  the  bed,  “I  see  the  star!”  and  then  a smile 


/ 


28  TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 

would  come  upon  the  face,  and  a little  weak  voice  used  to  say, 
“God  bless  my  brother  and  the  star!”  And  so  the  time  came,  all 
too  soon ! when  the  child  looked  out  alone,  and  when  there  was  no 
face  on  the  bed;  and  when  there  was  a little  grave  among  the 
graves,  not  there  before ; and  when  the  star  made  long  rays  down 
toward  him,  as  he  saw  it  through  his  tears. 

Now,  these  rays  were  so  bright,  and  they  seemed  to  make  such 
a shining  way  from  earth  to  heaven,  that  when  the  child  went  to 
his  solitary  bed,  he  dreamed  about  the  star;  and  dreamed  that, 
lying  where  he  was,  he  saw  a train  of  people  baken  up  that  spark- 
ling road  by  angels. 

And  the  star,  opening,  showed  him  a great  world  of  light,  where 
many  more  such  angels  waited  to  receive  them. 

All  these  angels  who  were  waiting  turned  their  beaming  eyes 
upon  the  people  who  were  earned  up  into  the  star ; and  some  came 
out  from  the  long  rows  in  which  they  stood,  and  fell  upon  the 
people’s  necks,  and  kissed  them  tenderly,  and  went  away  with  them 
down  avenues  of  light,  and  were  so  happy  in  their  company,  that 
lying  in  his  bed  he  wept  for  joy. 

But  there  were  many  angels  who  did  not  go  with  them,  and 
among  them  was  one  he  knew.  The  patient  face  that  once  had  lain 
upon  the  bed  was  glorified  and  radiant,  hut  his  heart  found  out  his 
sister  among  all  the  host. 

His  sister’s  angel  fingered  near  the  entrance  of  the  star,  and 
said  to  the  leader  among  those  who  had  brought  the  people  thither, 

“Is  my  brother  come?” 

And  he  said,  “No.” 

She  was  turning  hopefully  away,  when  the  child  stretched  out 
his  arms,  and  cried, 

“0  sister,  I am  here ! Take  me !”  And  then  she  turned  her 
beaming  eyes  upon  him  and  it  was  night;  and  the  star  was  shin- 
ing into  the  room,  making  long  rays  down  toward  him  as  he  saw 
it  through  his  tears. 

From  that  hour  forth  the  child  looked  out  upon  the  star  as  on 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


29 


the  home  he  was  to  go  to,  when  his  time  should  come;  and  he 
thought  that  he  did  not  belong  to  the  earth  alone,  but  to  the  star, 
too,  because  of  his  sister’s  angel  gone  before. 

There  was  a baby  born  to  be  a brother  to  the  child;  and 
while  he  was  so  little  that  he  never  yet  had  spoken  a word,  he 
stretched  his  tiny  form  out  on  his  bed  and  died. 

Again  the  child  dreamed  of  the  opened  star,  and  of  the  com- 
pany of  angels,  and  the  train  of  people,  and  the  rows  of  angels  with 
their  beaming  eyes  all  turned  upon  those  people’s  faces. 

Said  his  sister’s  angel  to  the  leader, 

“Is  my  brother  come?” 

And  he  said,  “Not  that  one,  but  another.” 

As  the  child  beheld  his  brother’s  angel  in  her  arms,  he  cried, 
“0,  sister!  I am  here!  Take  me!”  And  she  turned  and 
smiled  upon  him,  and  the  star  was  shining. 

He  grew  to  be  a young  man  and  was  busy  at  his  books  when 
an  old  servant  came  to  him  and  said, 

“Thy  mother  is  no  more.  I bring  her  blessing  on  her  darling 
son!” 

Again  at  night  he  saw  the  star,  and  all  that  former  company. 
Said  his  sister’s  angel  to  the  leader, 

“Is  my  brother  come?” 

And  he  said, 

“Thy  mother!” 

A mighty  cry  of  joy  went  forth  through  all  the  stars,  because 
the  mother  was  reunited  to  her  two  children.  And  he  stretched  out 
his  arms  and  cried,  “0  mother,  sister,  brother,  I am  here!  Take 
me!”  And  they  answered  him,  “Not  yet.”  And  the  star  was 
shining. 

He  grew  to  be  a man  whose  hair  was  turning  gray,  and  he 
was  sitting  in  his  chair  by  the  fireside,  heavy  with  grief,  and  with 
his  face  bedewed  with  tears,  when  the  star  opened  once  again. 
Said  his  sister’s  angel  to  the  leader, 

“Is  my  brother  come?” 


30 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


Aitd  he  said,  “Nay,  but  his  maiden  daughter.” 

And  the  man  who  had  been  the  child  saw  his  daughter,  newly 
lost  to  him,  a celestial  creature  among  those  three,  and  he  said, 

“My  daughter’s  head  is  on  my  sister’s  bosom,  and  her  arm  is 
round  my  mother’s  neck,  and  at  her  feet  is  the  baby  of  old  time, 
and  I can  bear  the  parting  from  her,  God  be  praised!” 

And  the  star  was  shining. 

And  thus  the  child  came  to  he  an  old  man,  and  his  once 
smooth  face  was  wrinkled,  and  his  steps  were  slow  and  feeble,  and 
his  back  was  bent.  And  one  night,  as  he  lay  upon  his  bed,  his 
children  standing  round,  he  cried,  as  he  had  cried  so  long  ago, 

“I  see  the  star!” 

They  whispered  one  another,  “He  is  dying.” 

And  he  said,  “I  am.  My  age  is  falling  from  me  like  a gar- 
ment, and  I move  toward  the  star  as  a child.  And  0,  my  Father, 
now  I thank  thee  that  it  has  so  often  opened,  to  receive  those  dear 
ones  who  await  me!” 

And  the  star  was  shining ; and  it  shines  upon  his  grave. 


Death,  of  Little  Jo. 

Jo  is  very  glad  to  see  his  old  friend;  and  says,  when  they  are 
left  alone,  that  he  takes  it  uncommon  kind  as  Mr.  Sangsby  should 
come  so  far  out  of  his  way  on  accounts  of  sich  as  him.  Mr.  Sangsby, 
touched  by  the  spectacle  before  him,  immediately  lays  upon  the 
table  half-a-crown;  that  magic  balsam  of  his  for  all  kinds  of 
wounds. 

“And  how  do  you  find  yourself,  my  poor  lad?”  inquired  the 
stationer,  with  his  cough  of  sympathy. 

“I’m  in  luck,  Mr.  Sangsby,  I am,”  returns  Jo,  “and  don’t  want 
for  nothink.  I’m  more  cumf  bier  nor  you  can’t  think,  Mr.  Sangsby. 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD.  3\ 

I’m  wery  sorry  that  I done  it,  but  I didn’t  go  fur  to  do  it.  sir/’ 

The  stationer  softly  lays  down  another  half-crown*  and  asks 
him  what  it  is  that  he  is  so  sorry  for  having  done. 

“Mr.  Sangsby,”  says  Jo,  “I  went  and  giv  a illness  to  the  lady 
as  wos  and  yit  as  warn’t  the  t’other  lady,  and  none  of  ’em  never 
says  nothing  to  me  for  having  done  it,  on  accounts  of  their  being 
ser  good  and  my  having  been  s’  unfortnet.  The  lady  come  herself 
and  see  me  yes’day,  and  she  ses,  ‘Ah,  Jo!’  she  ses.  ‘We  thought 
we’d  lost  you,  Jo!’  she  ses.  And  she  sits  down  a smilin’  so  quiet, 
and  don’t  pass  a word  nor  yit  a look  upon  me  for  having  done  it, 
she  don’t,  and  I turns  agin  the  wall,  I does,  Mr.  Sangsby.  And 
Mr.  Jarnders,  I see  him  a forced  to  turn  away  his  own  self. 
And  Mr.  Woodcot,  he  come  fur  to  give  me  somethink  for  to  ease 
me,  wot  he’s  alius  a doin’  on  day  and  night,  and  wen  he  comes 
a bendin’  over  me  and  a speakin’  up  so  hold,  I see  his  tears  a failin’, 
Mr.  Sangsby.” 

The  softened  stationer  deposits  another  half-crown  on  the 
table.  Nothing  less  than  a repetition  of  that  infallible  remedy  will 
relieve  his  feelings. 

“Wot  I was  thinkin’  on,  Mr.  Sangsby,”  proceeds  Jo,  “wos  as 
you  wos  able  to  write  very  large,  p’r’aps?” 

“Yes,  Jo,  please  God,”  returns  the  stationer. 

“Uncommon,  precious  large,  p’r’aps?”  says  Jo,  with  eagerness. 

“Yes,  my  poor  hoy.” 

Jo  laughs  with  pleasure.  “Wot  I wos  thinkin’  on,  then,  Mr. 
Sangsby,  wos,  that  wen  I wos  moved  on  as  fur  as  ever  I could  go, 
and  couldn’t  be  moved  no  furder,  whether  you  might  be  so  good, 
p’r’aps,  as  to  write  out,  wery  large,  so  that  any  one  could  see  it  any- 
wheres, as  that  I was  wery  truly  hearty  sorry  that  I done  it,  and 
that  I never  went  fur  to  do  it;  and  that  though  I didn’t  know 
nothink  at  all,  I know’d  as  Mi.  Woodcot  once  cried  over  it,  and  was 
alius  grieved  over  it,  and  that  I hoped  as’  he’d  be  able  to  forgive 
me  in  his  mind.  If  the  writin’  could  be  made  to  say  it  wery  large, 
he  might.” 


32 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


“It  shall  say  it,  Jo;  very  large.” 

Jo  laughs  again.  “Thankee,  Mr.  Sangsby.  It’s  wery  kind  of 
you,  sir,  and  it  makes  me  more  cumfbler  nor  I wos  afore.” 

The  meek  little  stationer,  with  a broken  and  unfinished  cough, 
slips  down  his  fourth  half-crown — he  has  never  been  so  close  to  a 
case  requiring  so  many, — and  is  fain  to  depart.  And  Jo  and  he 
upon  this  little  earth  shall  meet  no  more.  No  more. 

(. Another  Scene. — Enter  Mr.  Woodcourt.) 

“Well,  Jo,  what  is  the  matter?  Don’t  be  frightened.” 

“I  thought,”  says  Jo,  who  has  started,  and  is  looking  romid,  “1 
thought  I was  in  Tom- All- Alone’s  agin.  An’t  there  nobody  here 
but  you,  Mr.  Woodcot?” 

“Nobody.” 

“And  I an’t  took  back  to  Tom- All- Alone’s,  am  I,  sir?” 

“No.” 

Jo  closes  his  eyes,  muttering,  “I  am  wery  thankful.” 

After  watching  him  closely  a little  while,  Allan  puts  his  mouth 
very  near  his  ear,  and  says  to  him  in  a low,  distinct  voice:  “Jo, 

did  you  ever  know  a prayer?” 

“Never  know’d  nothink,  sir.” 

“Not  so  much  as  one  short  prayer?” 

“No,  sir.  Nothink  at  all.  Mr.  Chadbands  he  wos  a prayin’ 
wunst  at  Mr.  Sangsby’s,  and  I lieerd  him,  but  he  sounded  as  if  he 
wos  a speakin’  to  hisself,  and  not  to  me.  He  prayed  a lot,  but  I 
couldn’t  make  out  nothink  on  it.  Different  times  there  wos  other 
gen’l’men  come  down  to  Tom -All -Alone’s  a prayin’,  but  they  all 
mostly  sed  as  the  t’other  wuns  prayed  wrong,  and  all  mostly  sounded 
. to  be  talkin’  to  theirselves,  or  a passin’  blame  on  the  t’others,  and 
not  a talkin’  to  us.  We  never  know’d  nothink.  I never  know’d 
what  it  wos  all  about.” 

It  takes  him  a long  time  to  say  this ; and  few  but  an  experi- 
enced and  attentive  listener  could  hear,  or,  hearing,  understand 
him.  After  a short  relapse  into  sleep  or  stupor,  he  makes  of  a sud- 
den, a strong  effort  to  get  out  of  bed. 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


33 


“Stay,  Jo,  stay!  "What  now?” 

“It’s  time  for  me  to  go  to  that  there  berryin’-ground,  sir,”  he 
returns,  with  a wild  look. 

“Lie  down,  and  tell  me.  What  burying  ground,  Jo?” 

“Where  they  laid  him  as  wos  wery  good  to  me ; wery  good  to 
me,  indeed,  he  wos.  It’s  time  for  me  to  go  down  to  that  there 
berryin’-ground,  sir  and  ask  to  be  put  along  with  him.  I want  to 
go  there  and  be  berried.  He  used  fur  to  say  to  me,  ‘I  am  as  poor 
as  you  to-day,  Jo,’  he  ses.  I wants  to  tell  him  that  I am  as  poor 
as  him  now,  and  have  come  there  to  be  laid  along  with  him.” 
“By-and-by,  Jo;  by-and-by.” 

“Ah ! P’r’aps  they  wouldn’t  do  it  if  I was  to  go  myself.  But 
will  you  promise  to  have  me  took  there,  sir,  and  laid  along  with 
him?” 

“I  will,  indeed.” 

“Thankee,  sir!  Thankee,  sir!  They’ll  have  to  get  the  key 
of  the  gate  afore  they  can  take  me  in,  for  it’s  alius  locked.  And 
there’s  a step  there,  as  I used  fur  to  clean  with  my  broom.  It’s 
turned  wery  dark,  sir.  Is  there  any  light  acomin’  ?” 

“It  is  coming  fast,  Jo.” 

Fast.  The  cart  is  shaken  all  to  pieces,  and  the  rugged  road  is 
very  near  its  end. 

“Jo,  my  poor  fellow!” 

“I  hear  you,  sir,  in  the  dark,  but  I’m  a gropin’ — a gropin’ — let 
me  catch  hold  of  your  hand.” 

“Jo,  can  you  say  what  I say?” 

“I’ll  say  anythink  as  you  say,  sir,  for  I knows  it’s  good.” 

“Our  Father.” 

“ ‘Our  Father!’  Yes,  that’s  wery  good,  sir.” 

“Which  art  in  heaven.” 

“ ‘Art  in  heaven!’  Is  the  light  a cornin’,  sir?” 

“It  is  close  at  hand.  ‘Hallowed  by  thy  name.  ’ ” 


3 


34 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


“Hallowed — be — thy — name !” 

The  light  Las  come  upon  the  benighted  way.  Dead. 

Dead,  your  majesty.  Dead,  my  lords  and  gentlemen.  Dead, 
right  reverends  and  wrong  reverends  of  every  order.  Dead,  men 
and  women  born  with  heavenly  compassion  in  your  hearts.  And 
dying  thus  around  us  every  day. 


Mother’s  Vacant  Chair. 

I go  a little  farther  on  in  your  house,  and  I find  the  mother’s 
chair.  It  is  very  apt  to  be  a rocking  chair.  She  had  so  many  cares 
and  troubles  to  soothe,  that  it  must  have  rockers.  I remember  it 
well.  It  was  an  old  chair,  and  the  rockers  were  almost  worn  out, 
for  I was  the  youngest,  and  the  chair  had  rocked  the  whole  family. 
It  made  a creaking  noise  as  it  moved,  but  there  was  music  in  the 
sound.  It  was  just  high  enough  to  allow  us  children  to  put  our 
heads  into  her  lap.  That  was  the  bank  where  we  deposited  all  our 
hurts  and  worries.  Oh,  what  a chair  that  was ! It  was  different 
from  the  father’s  chair — it  was  entirely  different.  Perhaps  there  was 
about  this  chair  more  gentleness,  more  tenderness,  more  grief  when 
we  had  done  wrong.  When  we  were  wayward,  father  scolded,  but 
mother  cried.  It  was  a very  wakeful  chair.  In  the  sick  days  of  chil- 
dren other  chairs  could  not  keep  awake ; that  chair  always  kept  awake 
— kept  easily  awake.  That  chair  knew  all  the  old  lullabies,  and  all 
those  wordless  songs  which  mothers  sing  to  their  sick  children — 
songs  in  which  all  pity  and  compassion  and  sympathetic  influences  are 
combined.  That  old  chair  has  stopped  rocking  for  a good  many 
years.  It  may  be  set  up  in  the  loft  or  the  garret,  but  it  holds  a queenly 
power  yet.  When  at  midnight  you  went  into  that  grog-shop  to  get  the 
intoxicating  draught,  did  you  not  hear  a voice  that  said,  “My  son, 
why  go  in  there?”  and  louder  than  the  boisterous  enoore  of  the 
theater,  a voice  saying,  “My  son,  what  do  you  here?”  And  when 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


35 


you  went  into  the  house  of  sin,  a voice  saying,  “What  would  your 
mother  do  if  she  knew  you  were  here?”  and  you  were  provoked  at 
yourself,  and  you  charged  yourself  with  superstition  and  fanaticism, 
and  your  head  got  hot  with  your  own  thoughts,  and  you  went  home, 
and  you  went  to  bed,  and  no  sooner  had  you  touched  the  bed  than 
a voice  said,  “What,  a prayerless  pillow!”  Man!  what  is  the  matter? 
This!  You  are  too  near  your  mother’s  rocking-chair ! “Oh,  pshaw!” 
you  say,  “there’s  nothing  in  that.  I’m  five  hundred  miles  off  from 
where  I was  bom — I’m  three  thousand  miles  off  from  the  Scotch  kirk 
whose  bell  was  the  first  music  I ever  heard.”  I cannot  help  that; 
you  are  too  near  your  mother’s  rocking-chair.  “Oh !”  you  say, 
“there  can’t  he  anything  in  that;  that  chair  has  been  vacant  a great- 
while.”  1 cannot  help  that.  It  is  all  the  mightier  for  that;  it  is 
omnipotent,  that  vacant  mother’s  chair.  It  whispers.  It  speaks. 
It  weeps.  It  carols.  It  mourns.  It  prays.  It  warns.  It  thunders. 
A young  man  went  off  and  broke  his  mother’s  heart,  and  while  he 
was  away  from  home  his  mother  died,  and  the  telegraph  brought  the 
son,  and  he  came  into  the  room  where  she  lay,  and  looked  upon  her 
face,  and  cried  out,  “0,  mother,  mother!  what  your  life  could  not 
do  your  death  shall  effect.  This  moment  I give  my  heart  to  God.” 
And  he  kept  his  promise.  Another  victory  for  the  vacant  chair. 
With  reference  to  your  mother,  the  words  of  my  text  were  fulfilled : 
“Thou  shalt  he  missed  because  thy  seat  will  he  empty.” 


36 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


How  Tom  Sawyer  Whitewashed  His  Fence. 


[Tom  Sawyer,  having  offended  his  sole  guardian,  Aunt  Polly,  is  by  that  sternly 
affectionate  dame  punished  by  being  set  to  whitewash  the  fence  in  front  of  the 
garden.] 

Tom  appeared  on  the  sidewalk  with  a bucket  of  whitewash  and 
a long-handled  brush.  He  surveyed  the  fence,  and  all  gladness 
left  him,  and  a deep  melancholy  settled  down  upon  his  spirit. 
Thirty  yards  of  board  fence  nine  feet  high.  Life  to  him  seemed 
hollow,  and  existence  but  a burden.  Sighing,  he  dipped  his  brush 
and  passed  it  along  the  topmost  plank ; repeated  the  operation ; did 
it  again ; compared  the  insignificant  whitewashed  streak  with  the  far- 
reaching  continent  of  un whitewashed  fence,  and  sat  down  on  a tree- 
box,  discouraged. 

He  began  to  think  of  the  fun  he  had  planned  for  this  day,  and 
his  sorrows  multiplied.  Soon  the  free  boys  would  come  tripping 
along  on  all  sorts  of  delicious  expeditions,  and  they  would  make  a 
world  of  fun  of  him  for  having  to  work — the  very  thought  of  it 
burnt  him  like  fire.  He  got  out  his  worldly  wealth  and  examined 
it — hits  of  toys,  marbles,  and  trash;  enough  to  buy  an  exchange  of 
work , maybe,  hut  not  half  enough  to  buy  so  much  as  half  an  hour 
of  pure  freedom.  So  he  returned  his  straitened  means  to  his 
pocket,  and  gave  up  the  idea  of  trying  to  buy  the  boys.  At  this 
dark  and  hopeless  moment  an  inspiration  burst  upon  him! 
Nothing  less  than  a great,  magnificent  inspiration. 

He  took  up  his  brush  and  went  tranquilly  to  work.  Ben 
Rogers  hove  in  sight,  presently — the  very  hoy,  of  all  hoys,  whose 
ridicule  he  had  been  dreading.  Ben’s  gait  was  the  hop-skip-and- 
jump — proof  enough  that  his  heart  was  light  and  his  anticipations 
high.  He  was  eating  an  apple,  and  giving  a long,  melodious 
whoop,  at  intervals,  followed  by  a deep-toned  ding-dong-dong, 
ding-dong-dong, — for  he  was  personating  a steamboat.  As  he 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


37 


drew  near  he  slackened  speed,  took  the  middle  of  the  street,  leaned 
far  over  to  starboard  and  rounded  to,  ponderously,  and  with  labori- 
ous pomp  and  circumstance — for  he  was  personating  the  “Big 
Missouri,”  and  considered  himself  to  be  drawing  nine  feet  of 
water.  He  was  boat,  and  captain,  and  engine-bells  combined,  so 
he  had  to  imagine  himself  standing  on  his  own  hurricane-deck 
giving  the  orders  and  executing  them : 

“Stop  her,  sir!  Ting-a-ling-ling!”  The  headway  ran  almost 
out,  and  he  drew  up  slowly  toward  the  sidewalk. 

“Ship  up  to  back ! Ting-a-ling-ling!”  His  arms  straightened 
and  stiffened  down  his  sides. 

“Set  her  back  on  the  stabboard!  Ting-a-ling-ling ! Chow! 
ch-chow-wow!  Chow!”  His  right  hand,  meantime,  describing 
stately  circles — for  it  was  representing  a forty-foot  wheel. 

“Let  her  go  hack  on  the  labboard ! Ting-a-ling-ling ! Chow- 
ch-chow-chow !”  The  left  hand  began  to  describe  circles. 

“Stop  the  stabboard!  Ting-a-ling-ling ! Stop  the  labboard! 
Come  ahead  on  the  stabboard.  Stop  her!  Let  your  outside  turn 
over  slow!  Ting-a-ling-ling ! Chow-ow-ow!  Get  out  that  head- 
line. Lively , now ! Come — out  with  your  spring  line — what’re 
you  about  there ! Take  a turn  round  that  stump  with  the  bight  of 
it!  Stand  by  that  stage,  now — let  her  go!  Done  with  the  engine, 
sir!  Ting-a-ling-ling!  Slit!  Slit!  Slit!”  (trying  the  gauge- 
cocks.) 

Tom  went  on  whitewashing — paid  no  attention  to  the  steam- 
boat. Ben  stared  a moment,  and  then  said : 

“H i-yi ! you  re  a stump,  ain’t  you?” 

No  answer.  Tom  surveyed  his  last  touch  with  the  eye  of  an 
artist;  then  he  gave  his  brush  another  gentle  sweep,  and  surveyed 
the  result  as  before.  Ben  ranged  up  alongside  of  him.  Tom’s 
mouth  watered  for  the  apple,  but  he  stuck  to  his  work.  Ben  said: 
“Hello,  old  chap;  you  got  to  work,  hey?” 

Tom  wheeled  suddenly,  and  said : 

“Why,  it’s  you,  Ben;  I warn’t  noticing.” 


I 


38  TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 

“Say,  I’m  going  in  a-swimming,  I am.  Don’t  you  wish  you 
could?  But,  of  course,  you’d  druther  work , wouldn’t  you?  ’Course 
you  would!” 

Tom  contemplated  the  boy  a bit,  and  said: 

“What  do  you  call  work?” 

“Why,  ain’t  that  work?” 

Tom  resumed  his  whitewashing,  and  answered,  carelessly: 
“Well,  maybe  it  is,  and  maybe  it  ain’t.  All  I know  is,  it  suits 
Tom  Sawyer.” 

“Oh,  come  now,  you  don’t  mean  to  let  on  that  you  like  it?” 
“Like  it?  Well,  I don’t  see  why  I oughtn’t  to  like  it?  Does 
a boy  get  a chance  to  whitewash  a fence  every  day?” 

That  put  the  thing  in  a new  light.  Ben  stopped  nibbling  his 
apple.  Tom  swept  his  brush  daintily  back  and  forth — stepped 
back  to  note  the  effect — added  a touch  here  and  there — criticised 
the  effect  again,  Ben  watching  every  move  and  getting  more  and 
more  interested,  more  and  more  absorbed.  Presently  he  said : 
“Say,  Tom,  let  me  whitewash  a little.” 

Tom  considered — was  about  to  consent — but  he  altered  his 
mind: 

“No,  no,  I reckon  it  wouldn’t  hardly  do,  Ben.  You  see,  Aunt 
Polly’s  awful  particular  about  this  fence — right  here  on  the  street, 
you  know — if  it  was  the  back  fence  I wouldn’t  mind,  and  she 
wouldn’t.  Yes,  she’s  awful  particular  about  this  fence;  it’s  got  to 
be  done  very  careful;  I reckon  there  ain’t  one  boy  in  a thousand, 
maybe  two  thousand,  that  can  do  it  in  the  way  it’s  got  to  be 
done.” 

“No — is  that  so?  Oh,  come,  now,  lemme  just  try,  only  just  a 
little.  I’d  let  you , if  you  was  me,  Tom.” 

“Ben,  I’d  like  to,  honest  Injin;  but  Aunt  Polly — well,  Jim 
wanted  to  do  it,  but  she  wouldn’t  let  him.  Sid  wanted  to  do  it, 
but  she  wouldn’t  let  Sid.  Now  don’t  you  see  how  I’m  fixed?  If 
you  was  to  tackle  this  fence  and  anything  was  to  happen  to  it — ” 
“Oh,  shucks!  I’ll  be  just  as  careful.  Nt>w  lemme  try.  Say — 
[’ll  give  you  the  core  of  my  apple.” 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


89 


“Well,  here.  No,  Ben;  now  don’t;  I’m  afeared — ” 

“I’ll  give  yon  all  of  it.” 

Tom  gave  up  the  brush  with  reluctance  in  his  face,  hut  alacrity 
in  his  heart.  And  while  Ben  worked  and  sweated  in  the  sun,  the 
retired  artist  sat  on  a barrel  in  the  shade  close  by,  dangled  his  legs, 
munched  his  apple,  and  planned  the  slaughter  of  more  innocents. 
There  was  no  lack  of  material;  boys  happened  along  every  little 
while;  they  came  to  jeer,  but  remained  to  whitewash.  By  the 
time  Ben  was  fagged  out,  Tom  had  traded  the  next  chance 
to  Billy  Fisher  for  a kite  in  good  repair;  and  when  he  played  out, 
Johnny  Miller  bought  in  for  a dead  rat  and  a string  to  swing  it 
with;  and  so  on,  and  so  on,  hour  after  hour.  And  when  the 
middle  of  the  afternoon  came,  from  being  a poor,  poverty-stricken 
boy  in  the  morning,  Tom  was  literally  rolling  in  wealth.  He  had, 
beside  the  things  before  mentioned,  twelve  marbles,  part  of  a jews- 
harp,  a piece  of  blue  bottle-glass  to  look  through,  a spool  cannon,  a 
key  that  wouldn’t  unlock  anything,  a fragment  of  chalk,  a glass 
stopper  of  a decanter,  a tin  soldier,  a couple  of  tadpoles,  six  fire- 
crackers, a kitten  with  only  one  eye,  a brass  door-knob,  a dog- 
collar — but  no  dog, — the  handle  of  a knife,  four  pieces  of  orange- 
peel,  and  a dilapidated  old  window  sash. 

Tom  had  had  a nice  good  idle  time  all  the  while — plenty  of 
company — and  the  fence  had  three  coats  of  whitewash  on  it!  If 
he  hadn’t  run  out  of  whitewash  he  would  have  bankrupted  every 
boy  in  the  village. 

He  said  to  himself  that  it  was  not  such  a hollow  world  after 
all.  He  had  discovered  a great  law  of  human  action  without  know- 
ing it — namely,  that  in  order  to  make  a man  or  a boy  covet  a thing, 
it  is  only  necessary  to  make  it  difficult  to  attain. 

If  he  had  been  a great  and  wise  philosopher,  like  the  writer  of 
this,  he  would  now  have  comprehended  that  work  consists  of  what- 
ever a body  is  obliged  to  do,  and  that  play  consists  of  whatever  a 
body  is  not  obliged  to  do,  and  this  would  help  him  to  understand 
why  constructing  artificial  flowers  or  performing  on  a tread-mill  is 
work,  while  rolling  ten-pins  or  climbing  Mont  Blanc  is  only  amuse- 
ment. 


40 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


ASHINGTON  IRVING  was  born  in  the  city  of  New  York, 


April  3,  1783,  and  he  passed  to  the  higher  life  on 


November  28,  1859.  He  was  purely  a self-made  man,  hav- 
ing received  only  a common-school  education.  He  studied 
law  for  a time,  but  his  chief  studies  were  “Robinson  Crusoe,” 
collections  of  voyages,  also  Chaucer,  Spenser  and  other 
English  classics. 

Irving’s  literary  record  is  as  follows  : — In  1802  he  com- 
menced writing  for  the  newspaper  conducted  by  his  brother. 
His  next  venture  was  a publication  entitled  “Salmagundi,” 
conducted  by  himself  and  his  brother  William,  and  James  K. 
Paulding.  It  was  filled  with  satire  upon  the  follies  of  the 
day,  and  it  became  quite  successful.  Next  followed  his 
History  of  New  York,  probably  the  best  sustained  burlesque 
ever  written.  For  two  years  he  conducted  the  “Atlantic 
Magazine”  in  Philadelphia.  His  Sketch  Book  was  partly 
made  up  of  articles  from  the  “Magazine.”  His  Sketch  Book 
was  published  in  New  York  in  1818,  and  subsequently,  in 
London.  This  work  was  at  once  accepted  as  classic  and 
the  author’s  reputation  was  placed  upon  a permanent  basis ; 
it  was  considered  a literary  event.  In  1822  Bracebridge  Hill, 
written  in  Paris,  appeared  in  London.  In  1824  appeared 
the  Tales  of  a Traveller;  1828,  History  of  the  Life  and  Voy- 
ages of  Christopher  Columbus,  followed  by  Voyages  and  Dis- 
coveries of  the  Companions  of  Columbus.  While  in  Spain  he  col- 
lected the  materials  for  Conquest  of  Grenada,  The  Alhambra, 
Legends  of  the  Conquest  of  Spain,  and  Mahomet  and  His 


WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD, 


41 


Successors.  From  his  trip  beyond  the  Mississippi  came, 
A Tour  on  the  Prairies.  This  was  followed  by  Astoria,  The 
Adventures  of  Captain  Bonneville,  and  a volume  of  miscel- 
lanies, entitled  Wolfert’s  Roost.  He  also  published  the  Life 
of  Margaret  Davidson,  and  his  biography  of  Oliver  Goldsmith. 
His  last  great  work  is  his  Life  of  Washington,  in  five  volumes. 
The  words  Rip  Van  Winkle  and  Sleepy  Hollow  and  Knicker- 
bocker are  familiar  to  all. 

For  pleasure  and  for  material  for  his  works,  Irving 
traveled  quite  extensively.  In  1804  he  started  on  his  tour 
through  Europe.  He  visited  Genoa,  Sicily,  Naples,  Borne, 
Paris,  Brussels,  arriving  finally  at  London.  In  1814  he 
went  to  Europe  the  second  time.  He  made  a tour  of  the 
continent,  and  enjoyed  a special  literary  companionship  in 
London.  He  also  traveled  quite  extensively  in  this  country. 

Irving’s  civil  record  is  brief  but  important.  He  served 
for  a short  time  as  aid-de-camp  to  Governor  Tompkins  in 
1814.  He  was  commissioned,  by  Alexander  IT.  Everett, 
minster  to  Spain,  to  make  translations  of  the  newly  dis- 
covered papers  in  Madrid  referring  to  Columbus.  In  1829 
he  was  appointed  secretary  of  legation  to  the  American 
embassy  in  London.  In  1842  he  was  appointed  minister  to 
Spain. 

In  closing  this  sketch  we  quote  from  Underwood : 

“It  is  not  difficult  to  assign  Irving’s  place  among  our 
authors.  Thackeray  happily  spoke  of  him  as  ‘the  first 
embassador  whom  the  New  World  of  Letters  sent  to  the 
Old.  ’ In  our  lighter  literature  he  is  without  a rival  as  an 
artist.  He  is  equally  happy  in  his  delineations  of  scenery 
and  charater ; he  moves  us  to  tears  or  to  laughter  at  his 
pleasure.  His  works  have  all  an  admirable  proportion ; 
nothing  necessary  is  omitted,  and  needless  details  are 


42 


TREASURES  EROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


avoided.  He  never  fatigues  us  by  learned  antithesis,  nor  by 
the  parallelism  of  proverbial  grace,  and  picturesque  effect. 
The  vivacity  of  his  youth  never  wholly  deserted  him ; 
although  he  ceased  writing  humorous  works,  it  served  to 
animate  his  graver  histories,  and  to  give  them  a charm  which 
the  mere  annalist  could  not  attain.  His  life,  on  the  whole, 
was  fortunate ; his  fame  came  in  season  for  him  to  enjoy  it ; 
his  works  brought  him  his  bread,  honestly  earned,  and  not 
merely  the  monumental  stone.  Other  authors  may  perhaps 
excite  more  of  our  wonder  or  reverence,  but  Irving  will  be 
remembered  with  delight  and  love.  Irving’s  last  years  were 
spent  at  ‘Sunnyside,’  near  Tarrytown,  N.  Y.  He  was  never 
married.  Miss  Matilda  Hoffman,  the  lady  to  whom  he  was 
betrothed,  having  died  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  he  remained 
faithful  to  her  memory ; and  her  Bible,  kept  for  so  many 
years,  was  upon  the  table  at  his  bedside  wh^n  he  died.” 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


43 


The  Grave. 

Oh,  the  grave ! the  grave ! It  buries  every  error,  covers  every 
defect,  extinguishes  every  resentment.  From  its  peaceful  bosom 
spring  none  hut  fond  regrets  and  tender  recollections.  Who  can 
look  down  upon  the  grave  even  of  an  enemy,  and  not  feel  a com- 
punctious throb  that  he  should  ever  have  warred  with  the  poor 
handful  of  earth  that  lies  moldering  before  him?  But  the  grave 
of  those  we  loved, — what  a place  for  meditation ! There  it  is  we 
call  up,  in  long  review,  the  whole  history  of  virtue  and  gentleness, 
and  the  thousand  endearments  lavished  upon  us,  almost  unheeded, 
in  the  daily  intercourse  of  intimacy ; there  it  is  that  we  dwell  upon 
the  tenderness,  the  solemn,  awful  tenderness  of  the  parting  scene; 
the  bed  of  death,  with  all  its  stifled  griefs,  its  noiseless  attendants, 
its  mute,  watchful  assiduities;  the  last  testimonies  of  expiring  love; 
the  feeble,  fluttering,  thrilling — oh,  how  thrilling! — pressure  of  the 
hand ; the  faint,  faltering  accents  struggling  in  death  to  give  one 
more  assurance  of  affection;  the  last  fond  look  of  the  glazing  eye, 
turned  upon  us  even  from  the  threshold  of  existence ! Aye,  go  to 
the  grave  of  buried  love  and  meditate ! There  settle  the  account 
with  thy  conscience  for  every  past  benefit  unrequited,  every  past 
endearment  unregarded,  of  that  departed  being  who  can  never, 
never,  never  return,  to  be  soothed  by  thy  contrition. 

If  thou  art  a child,  and  hast  ever  added  a sorrow  to  the  soul, 
or  a furrow  to  the  silvered  brow  of  an  affectionate  parent,  if  thou 
art  a husband,  and  hast  ever  caused  the  fond  bosom  that  ventured 
its  whole  happiness  in  thy  arms  to  doubt  one  moment  of  thy  kind- 
ness or  thy  truth,  if  thou  art  a friend,  and  hast  ever  wronged  in 
thought,  or  word,  or  deed,  the  spirit  that  generously  confided  in  thee, 
if  thou  art  a lover,  and  hast  ever  given  one  unmerited  pang  to  that 
true  heart  which  now  lies  cold  and  still  beneath  thy  feet,  then  be 
sure  that  every  unkind  look,  every  ungracious  word,  every  ungentle 


44 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


action,  will  come  thronging  back  upon  thy  memory,  and  knocking 
dolefully  at  thy  soul;  then  be  sure  that  thou  wilt  lie  down,  sor- 
rowing and  repentant  on  the  grave,  and  utter  the  unheard  groan, 
and  pour  the  unavailing  tear,  more  deep,  more  hitter  because 
unheard  and  unavailing. 


"Rural  Life  in  England. 

The  stranger  who  would  form  a correct  opinion  of  the  English 
character  must  not  confine  his  observations  to  the  metropolis.  He 
must  go  forth  into  the  country;  he  must  sojourn  in  villages  and 
hamlets;  he  must  visit  castles,  villas,  farmhouses,  cottages;  he 
must  wander  through  parks  and  gardens,  along  hedges  and  green 
lanes;  he  must  loiter  about  country  churches,  attend  wakes  and 
fairs,  and  other  rural  festivals,  and  cope  with  the  people  in  all  their 
conditions,  and  all  their  habits  and  humors. 

In  some  countries,  the  large  cities  absorb  the  wealth  and  fashion 
of  the  nation;  they  are  the  only  fixed  abodes  of  elegant  and  intelli- 
gent society,  and  the  country  is  inhabited  almost  entirely  by  boorish 
peasantry.  In  England,  on  the  contrary,  the  metropolis  is  a mere 
gathering-place,  or  general  rendezvous,  of  the  polite  classes,  where 
they  devote  a small  portion  of  the  year  to  a hurry  of  gayety  and 
dissipation,  and  having  indulged  this  carnival,  return  again  to  the 
apparently  more  congenial  habits  of  rural  life.  The  various  orders 
of  society  are  therefore  diffused  over  the  whole  surface  of  the  king- 
dom, and  the  most  retired  neighborhoods  afford  specimens  of  the 
different  ranks. 

The  English,  in  fact,  are  strongly  gifted  with  the  rural  feeling. 
They  possess  a quick  sensibility  to  the  beauties  of  nature,  and  a 
keen  relish  for  the  pleasures  and  employments  of  the  country.  This 
passion  seems  inherent  in  them.  Even  the  inhabitants  of  cities, 
born  and  brought  up  among  brick  walls  and  bustling  streets,  enter 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


45 


with  facility  into  rural  habits  and  evince  a turn  for  rural  occupa- 
tion. The  merchant  has  his  snug  retreat  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
metropolis,  where  he  often  displays  as  much  pride  and  zeal  in  the 
cultivation  of  his  flower-garden  and  the  maturing  of  his  fruits  as 
he  does  in  the  conduct  of  his  business  and  the  success  of  his  com- 
mercial enterprises.  Even  those  less  fortunate  individuals  who 
are  doomed  to  pass  their  lives  in  the  midst  of  din  and  traffic,  con- 
trive to  have  something  that  shall  remind  them  of  the  green  aspect 
of  nature.  In  the  most  dark  and  dingy  quarters  of  the  city,  the 
drawing-room  window  resembles,  frequently,  a hank  of  flowers; 
every  spot  capable  of  vegetation  has  its  grass  plot  and  flower-bed 
and  every  square  its  mimic  park,  laid  out  with  picturesque  taste  and 
gleaming  with  refreshing  verdure. 

Those  who  see  the  Englishman  only  in  town  are  apt  to  form 
an  unfavorable  opinion  of  his  social  character.  He  is  either 
absorbed  in  business  or  distracted  by  the  thousand  engagements 
that  dissipate  time,  thought  and  feeling,  in  this  huge  metropolis ; 
he  has,  therefore,  too  commonly,  a look  of  hurry  and  abstraction. 
Wherever  he  happens  to  he  he  is  on  the  point  of  going  somewhere 
else;  at  the  moment  he  is  talking  on  one  subject  his  mind  is  wan- 
dering to  another;  and  while  paying  a friendly  visit,  he  is  calcula- 
ting how  he  shall  economize  time  so  as  to  pay  the  other  visits  allotted 
to  the  morning.  An  immense  metropolis  like  London  is  calculated 
to  make  men  selfish  and  uninteresting.  In  their  casual  and  tran- 
sient meetings,  they  can  hut  deal  briefly  in  common  places.  They 
present  but  the  cold  superfices  of  character — its  rich  and  genial 
qualities  have  no  time  to  he  warmed  into  a flow. 

It  is  in  the  country  that  the  Englishman  gives  scope  to  his 
natural  feelings.  He  breaks  loose  gladly  from  the  cold  formalities 
and  negative  civilities  of  town;  throws  off  his  habits  of  shy  reserve, 
and  becomes  joyous  and  free-hearted.  He  manages  to  collect  around 
him  all  the  conveniences  and  elegancies  of  polite  life,  and  to  banish 
its  restraint.  His  country  seat  abounds  with  every  requisite,  either 
for  studious  retirement,  tasteful  gratification,  or  rural  exercise. 
Books,  paintings,  music,  horses,  dogs,  and  sporting  implements  of 


46 


TEEASUEES  FEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


all  kinds,  are  at  hand.  He  puts  no  constraint  either  upon  his 
guests  or  himself,  hut  in  the  true  spirit  of  hospitality  provides  the 
means  of  enjoyment,  and  leaves  every  one  to  partake  according 
to  his  inclination. 

The  taste  of  the  English  in  the  cultivation  of  land,  and  in  what 
is  called  landscape  gardening,  is  unrivaled.  They  have  studied 
nature  intently,  and  discover  an  exquisite  sense  of  her  beautiful 
forms  and  harmonious  combinations.  Those  charms,  which  in 
other  countries  she  lavishes  in  wild  solitudes,  are  here  assembled 
round  the  haunts  of  domestic  life.  They  seem  to  have  caught  her 
coy  and  furtive  glances,  and  spread  them,  like  witchery,  about  their 
rural  abodes. 

Nothing  can  he  more  imposing  than  the  magnificence  of 
English  park  scenery.  Vast  lawns  that  extend  like  sheets  of  vivid 
green,  with  here  and  there  clumps  of  gigantic  trees,  heaping  up 
rich  piles  of  foliage.  The  solemn  pomp  of  groves  and  woodland 
glades,  with  the  deer  trooping  in  silent  herds  across  them;  the  hare, 
hounding  away  to  the  covert ; or  the  pheasant,  suddenly  bursting 
upon  the  wing.  The  brook,  taught  to  wind  in  the  most  natural 
meanderings,  or  expand  into  a glassy  lake — the  sequestered  pool, 
reflecting  the  quivering  trees,  with  the  yellow  leaf  sleeping  on  its 
bosom,  and  the  trout  roaming  fearlessly  about  its  limpid  waters; 
while  some  rustic  temple  or  sylvan  statue,  grown  green  and  dark 
with  age,  gives  an  air  of  classic  sanctity  to  the  seclusion.  These 
are  but  a few  of  the  features  of  park  scenery;  but  what  most 
delights  me,  is  the  creative  talent  with  which  the  English  decorate 
the  unostentatious  abodes  of  middle  life.  The  rudest  habitation, 
the  most  unpromising  and  scanty  portion  of  land,  in  the  hands  of 
an  Englishman  of  taste,  becomes  a little  paradise.  With  a nicely 
discriminating  eye  he  seizes  at  once  upon  its  capabilities,  and  pic- 
tures in  his  mind  the  future  landscape.  The  sterile  spot  grows  in- 
to loveliness  under  his  hand;  and  yet  the  operations  of  art  which 
produce  the  effect  are  scarcely  to  he  perceived.  The  cherishing  and 
training  of  some  trees;  the  cautious  pruning  of  others;  the  nice 
distribution  of  flowers  and  plants  of  tender  and  graceful  foliage ; the 


I 


TEEASUEES  FEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


47 


introduction  of  a green  slope  of  velvet  turf;  the  partial  opening  to 
a peep  of  blue  distance,  or  silver  gleam  of  water;  all  these  are  man- 
aged with  a delicate  tact,  a prevailing,  yet  quiet  assiduity,  like  the 
magic  touchings  with  which  a painter  finishes  up  a favorite  picture. 
The  residence  of  people  of  fortune  and  refinement  in  the  country 
has  diffused  a degree  of  taste  and  elegance  in  rural  economy  that 
descends  to  the  lowest  class.  The  very  laborer,  with  his  thatched 
cottage  and  narrow  slip  of  ground,  attends  to  their  embellishment. 
The  trim  hedge,  the  grass-plot  before  the  door,  the  little  flower  bed 
bordered  with  snug  box,  the  woodbine  trained  up  against  the  wall, 
and  hanging  its  blossoms  about  the  lattice,  the  pot  of  flowers  in  the 
window,  the  holly  providentially  planted  about  the  house,  to  cheat 
Winter  of  its  dreariness,  and  throw  in  a semblance  of  green  Summer 
to  cheer  the  fireside ; all  these  bespeak  the  influence  of  taste,  flow- 
ing down  from  high  sources  and  pervading  the  lowest  levels  of  the 
public  mind.  If  ever  love,  as  poets  sing,  delight  to  visit  a cottage, 
it  must  be  the  cottage  of  an  English  peasant. 

The  fondness  for  rural  life  among  the  higher  classes  of  the 
English  has  had  a great  and  salutary  effect  upon  the  national  char- 
acter. I do  not  know  a finer  race  of  men  than  the  English  gentle- 
men. Instead  of  the  softness  and  effeminacy  which  characterizes 
the  men  of  rank  in  most  countries,  they  exhibit  a union  of  elegance 
and  strength,  a robustness  of  frame,  and  freshness  of  complexion, 
which  I am  inclined  to  attribute  to  their  living  so  much  in  the  open 
air,  and  pursuing  so  eagerly  the  invigorating  recreations  of  the 
country.  These  hardy  exercises  produce  also  a healthful  tone  of 
mind  and  spirits,  and  a manliness  and  simplicity  of  manners,  which 
even  the  follies  and  dissipations  of  the  town  cannot  easily  pervert, 
and  can  never  entirely  destroy.  In  the  country,  too,  the  different 
orders  of  society  seem  to  approach  more  freely,  to  be  more  disposed 
to  blend  and  operate  favorably  upon  each  other.  The  distinctions 
between  them  do  not  appear  to  be  so  marked  and  impassible  as  in 
the  cities.  The  manner  in  which  property  has  been  distributed  into 
small  estates  and  farms  has  established  a regular  gradation  from 
the  nobleman,  through  the  classes  of  gentry,  small  landed  propri- 


48 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


etors  and  substantial  farmers,  down  to  the  laboring  peasantry;  and 
while  it  bas  thus  banded  the  extremes  of  society  together,  has 
infused  into  each  intermediate  rank  a spirit  of  independence.  This, 
it  must  be  confessed,  is  not  so  universally  the  case  at  present  as  it 
was  formerly;  the  larger  estates  having,  in  late  years  of  distress, 
absorbed  the  smaller,  and,  in  some  parts  of  the  country,  almost 
annihilated  the  sturdy  race  of  small  farmers.  These,  however,  I 
believe,  are  but  casual  breaks  in  the  general  system  I have  men- 
tioned. 

In  rural  occupation  there  is  nothing  mean  and  debasing.  It 
leads  a man  forth  among  scenes  of  natural  grandeur  and  beauty; 
it  leaves  him  to  the  workings  of  his  own  mind,  operated  upon  by 
the  purest  and  most  elevating  of  external  influences.  Such  a man 
may  be  simple  and  rough,  but  he  cannot  be  vulgar.  The  man  of 
refinement,  therefore,  finds  nothing  revolting  in  an  intercourse  with 
the  lower  orders  of  rural  life,  as  he  does  when  he  casually  mingles 
with  the  lower  orders  of  cities.  He  lays  aside  his  distance  and 
reserve,  and  is  glad  to  waive  the  distinctions  of  rank  and  to  enter 
into  the  honest,  heartfelt  enjoyment  of  common  life.  Indeed,  the 
very  amusements  of  the  country  bring  men  more  and  more  together, 
and  the  sound  of  hound  and  horn  blend  all  feelings  into  harmony. 
I believe  this  is  one  great  reason  why  the  nobility  and  gentry  are 
more  popular  among  the  inferior  orders  in  England  than  they  are 
in  any  other  country;  and  why  the  latter  have  endured  so  many 
excessive  pressures  and  extremities,  without  repining  more  gener- 
ally at  the  unequal  distribution  of  fortune  and  privilege. 

To  this  mingling  of  cultivated  and  rustic  society  may  also  be 
attributed  the  rural  feeling  that  runs  through  British  literature; 
the  frequent  use  of  illustrations  from  rural  life — those  incomparable 
descriptions  of  nature  which  abound  in  the  British  poets,  that  have 
continued  down  from  “The  Flower  and  the  Leaf,”  of  Chaucer,  and 
have  brought  into  our  closets  all  the  freshness  and  fragrance  of  the 
dewy  landscape.  The  pastoral  writers  of  other  countries  appear  as 
if  they  had  paid  nature  an  occasional  visit,  and  become  acquainted 
with  her  general  charms;  but  the  British  poets  have  lived  and 


TEEASUBES  EEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOBLD. 


49 


reveled  with  lier ; they  have  wooed  her  in  her  most  secret  haunts ; 
they  have  watched  her  minutest  caprices.  A spray  could  not 
tremble  in  the  breeze,  a leaf  could  not  rustle  to  the  ground,  a 
diamond  drop  could  not  patter  in  the  stream,  a fragrance  could  not 
exhale  from  the  humble  violet,  nor  a daisy  unfold  its  crimson  tints 
to  the  morning,  hut  it  has  been  noticed  by  these  impassioned  and 
delicate  observers,  and  wrought  up  into  some  beautiful  morality. 

The  effect  of  this  devotion  of  elegant  minds  to  rural  occupations 
has  been  wonderful  on  the  face  of  the  country.  A great  part  of 
the  island  is  level,  and  would  he  monotonous  were  it  not  for  the 
charms  of  culture;  hut  it  is  studded  and  gemmed,  as  it  were,  with 
castles  and  palaces,  and  embroidered  with  parks  and  gardens.  It 
does  not  abound  in  grand  and  sublime  prospects,  hut  rather  in  little 
home  scenes  of  rural  repose  and  sheltered  quiet.  Every  antique 
farm-house  and  moss-grown  cottage  is  a picture;  and  as  the  roads 
are  continually  winding,  and  the  view  is  shut  in  by  groves  and 
hedges,  the  eye  is  delighted  by  a continual  succession  of  small  land- 
scapes of  captivating  loveliness. 

The  great  charm,  however,  of  English  scenery  is  the  moral 
feeling  that  seems  to  pervade  it.  It  is  associated  in  the  mind  with 
ideas  of  order,  of  quiet,  of  sober,  well-established  principles,  of 
hoary  usage  and  reverend  custom.  Everything  seems  to  be  the 
growth  of  ages  of  regular  and  peaceful  existence.  The  old  church 
of  remote  achitecture,  with  its  low, massive  portal,  its  Gothic  tower, 
its  windows  rich  with  tracery  and  painted  glass,  its  stately  monu- 
ments of  warriors  and  worthies  of  the  olden  time,  ancestors  of  the 
present  lords  of  the  soil,  its  tombstones,  recording  successive  gene- 
rations of  sturdy  yeomanry,  whose  progeny  still  plow  the  same 
fields  and  kneel  at  the  same  altar.  The  parsonage,  a quaint, 
irregular  pile,  partly  antiquated,  hut  repaired  and  altered  in  the 
taste  of  various  ages  and  occupants ; the  stile  and  foot-path  leading 
from  the  churchyard  across  pleasant  fields  and  along  shady  hedge- 
rows, according  to  an  immemorable  right  of  way;  the  neighboring 
village  with  its  venerable  cottages,  its  public  green,  sheltered  by 
trees  under  which  the  forefathers  ,of  the  present  race  have  sported ; 


4 


50 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


the  antique  family  mansion,  standing  apart  in  some  little  rural 
domain,  but  looking  down  with  a protecting  air  on  the  surrounding 
scene, — all  these  common  features  of  English  landscape  evince  a 
calm  and  settled  security,  and  hereditary  transmission  of  home- 
bred virtues  and  local  attachments,  that  speak  deeply  and  touch- 
ingly for  the  moral  character  of  the  nation. 

It  is  a pleasing  sight  on  a Sunday  morning,  when  the  bell  is 
sending  its  sober  melody  across  the  quiet  fields,  to  behold  the  peas- 
antry in  their  best  finery,  with  ruddy  faces  and  modest  cheerful- 
ness, thronging  tranquilly  along  the  green  lanes  to  church;  but  it 
is  still  more  pleasing  to  see  them  in  the  evenings,  gathering  about 
their  cottage  doors,  and  appearing  to  exult  in  the  humble  comforts 
and  embellishments  which  their  own  hands  have  spread  around 
them. 


Our  Revolutionary  Fathers 

[The  following  address  to  our  Revolutionary  Fathers,  we  take  from  Webster’s 
"masterpiece  as  a dedicatory  orator;”  an  address  delivered  at  the  laying  of  the 
corner-stone  of  the  Bunker  Hill  Monument,  at  Charlestown,  Mass.,  June  17,  1825.] 

Venerable  men!  you  have  come  down  to  us  from  a former 
generation.  Heaven  has  bounteously  lengthened  out  your  lives 
that  you  might  behold  this  joyous  day.  You  are  now  where  you 
stood  fifty  years  ago  this  very  hour,  with  your  brothers  and  your 
neighbors,  shoulder  to  shoulder  in  the  strife  of  your  country. 
Behold,  how  altered!  The  same  heavens  are  indeed  over  your 
heads,  the  same  ocean  rolls  at  your  feet,  but  all  else  how  changed! 
You  hear  now  no  roar  of  hostile  cannon,  you  see  no  mixed  volumes 
of  smoke  and  flame  rising  from  burning  Charlestown.  The  ground 
strewed  with  the  dead  and  the  dying,  the  impetuous  charge,  the 
steady  and  successful  repulse,  the  loud  call  to  repeated  assault,  the 
summoning  of  all  that  is  manly  to  repeated  resistance,  a thousand 
bosoms  freely  and  fearlessly  bared  in  an  instant  to  whatever  of 


I _ 

TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD.  51 

terror  there  may  be  in  war  and  death, — all  these  you  have  wit- 
nessed, hut  you  witness  them  no  more.  All  is  peace.  The  heights 
of  yonder  metropolis,  its  towers  and  roofs,  which  you  then  saw 
filled  with  wives  and  children  and  countrymen  in  distress  and 
terror,  and  looking  with  unutterable  emotions  for  the  issue  of  the 
combat,  have  presented  you  to-day  with  the  sight  of  its  whole 
happy  population,  come  out  to  welcome  and  greet  you  with  an  uni- 
versal jubilee.  Yonder  proud  ships,  by  a felicity  of  position  appro- 
priately lying  at  the  foot  of  this  mount,  and  seeming  fondly  to 
cling  around  it,  are  not  means  of  annoyance  to  you,  but  your 
country’s  own  means  of  distinction  and  defense.  All  is  peace,  and 
God  has  granted  you  this  sight  of  your  country’s  happiness  ere  you 
slumber  forever  in  the  grave.  He  has  allowed  you  to  behold  and 
to  partake  the  reward  of  your  patriotic  toils,  and  he  has  allowed 
us,  your  sons  and  countrymen,  to  meet  you  here,  and  in  the  name 
of  the  present  generation,  in  the  name  of  your  country,  in  the 
name  of  liberty,  to  thank  you ! 

But,  alas ! you  are  not  all  here ! Time  and  the  sword  have 
thinned  your  ranks.  Prescott,  Putnam,  Stark,  Brooks,  Read, 
Pomeroy,  Bridge ! our  eyes  seek  for  you  in  vain  amid  this  broken 
band!  You  are  gathered  to  your  fathers,  and  live  only  to  your 
country  in  her  grateful  remembrance  and  your  own  bright  example. 
But  let  us  not  too  much  grieve  that  you  have  met  the  common  fate 
of  men.  You  lived  at  least  long  enough  to  know  that  your  work 
had  been  nobly  and  successfully  accomplished.  You  lived  to  see 
your  country’s  independence  established  and  to  sheathe  your  swords 
from  war.  On  the  light  of  liberty  you  saw  arise  the  light  of  peace, 
like 

“Another  morn, 

Risen  on  mid -noon;” 

and  the  sky  on  which  you  closed  your  eyes  was  cloudless. 

But,  ah!  Him!  the  first  great  martyr  in  this  great  cause! 
Him ! the  premature  victim  of  his  own  self-devoting  heart ! Him ! 
the  head  of  our  civil  councils,  and  the  destined  leader  of  our  mili- 
tary bands,  whom  nothing  brought  hither  but  the  unquenchable 


y.  OF  ILL  UB 


52 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


fire  of  his  own  spirit ! Him ! cut  off  by  Providence  in  the  hour  of 
overwhelming  anxiety  and  thick  gloom,  falling  ere  he  saw  the  star 
of  his  country  rise,  pouring  out  his  generous  blood  like  water, 
before  he  knew  whether  it  would  fertilize  a land  of  freedom  or  of 
bondage ! How  shall  I struggle  with  the  emotions  that  stifle  the 
utterance  of  thy  name!  Our  poor  work  may  perish,  but  thine 
shall  endure ! This  monument  may  molder  away,  the  solid  ground 
it  rests  upon  may  sink  down  to  a level  with  the  sea,  but  thy 
memory  shall  not  fail ! Wheresoever  among  men  a heart  shall  be 
found  that  beats  to  the  transports  of  patriotism  and  liberty,  its 
aspirations  shall  be  to  claim  kindred  with  thy  spirit! 

But  the  scene  amidst  which  we  stand  dees  not  permit  us  to 
confine  our  thoughts  or  our  sympathies  to  those  fearless  spirits  who 
hazarded  or  lost  their  fives  on  this  consecrated  spot.  We  have  the 
happiness  to  rejoice  here  in  the  presence  of  a most  worthy  repre- 
sentation of  the  survivors  of  the  whole  Revolutionary  Army. 

Veterans ! you  are  the  remnant  of  many  a well-fought  field. 
You  bring  with  you  marks  of  honor  from  Trenton  and  Monmouth, 
from  Yorktown,  Camden,  Bennington  and  Saratoga.  Veterans  of 
half  a century ! when  in  your  youthful  days  you  put  everything  at 
hazard  in  your  country’s  cause,  good  as  that  cause  was,  and  san- 
guine as  youth  is,  still  your  fondest  hopes  did  not  stretch  onward 
to  an  hour  like  this ! At  a period  to  which  you  could  not  reason- 
ably have  expected  to  arrive,  at  a moment  of  national  prosperity 
such  as  you  could  never  have  foreseen,  you  are  now  met  here  to 
enjoy  the  fellowship  of  oid  soldiers  and  to  receive  the  overflowing 
of  an  universal  gratitude. 

But  your  agitated  countenances  and  your  heaving  breasts 
inform  me  that  even  this  is  not  an  unmixed  joy.  I perceive  that  a 
tumult  of  contending  feelings  rushes  upon  you.  The  images  of  the 
dead,  as  well  as  the  persons  of  the  living,  throng  to  your  embraces. 
The  scene  overwhelms  you,  and  I turn  from  it.  May  the  Father 
of  all  mercies  smile  upon  your  declining  years  and  bless  them! 
And  when  »ou  shall  here  have  exchanged  your  embraces,  when  you 
shall  one  nore  have  pressed  the  hands  which  have  been  so  often 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


53 


extended  to  give  succor  in  adversity,  or  grasped  in  the  exultation  of 
victory,  then  look  abroad  into  this  lovely  land  which  your  young 
valor  defended,  and  mark  the  happiness  with  which  it  is  filled ; yea, 
look  abroad  in  the  whole  earth  and  see  what  a name  you  have  con- 
tributed to  give  to  your  country,  and  what  a praise  you  have  added 
to  freedom,  and  then  rejoice  in  the  sympathy  and  gratitude  which 
beam  upon  your  last  days  from  the  improved  condition  of  mankind ! 

[Here  follow  a few  remarks  in  which  Mr.  Webster  refers  to  the  effects  of  the 
battle  of  June  17th  and  its  impression  upon  those  who  were  about  to  engage  in  the 
struggle  for  equal  rights.  He  sees  the  colonists  standing  together  and  he  expresses 
the  hope  that  this  feeling  will  remain  with  them  forever:  “One  cause,  one  country 
one  heart.”]  Mr.  Webster  then  continues  as  follows: 

Information  of  these  events,  circulating  through  Europe,  at 
length  reached  the  ears  of  one  who  now  hears  me.*  He  has  not 
forgotten  the  emotion  which  the  fame  of  Bunker  Hill  and  the  name 
of  Warren  excited  in  his  youthful  breast. 

Sir,  we  are  assembled  to  commemorate  the  establishment  of 
great  public  principles  of  liberty,  and  to  do  honor  to  the  distin- 
guished dead.  The  occasion  is  too  severe  for  eulogy  to  the  living. 
But,  sir,  your  interesting  relation  to  this  country,  the  peculiar  cir- 
cumstances which  surround  you  and  surround  us,  call  on  me  to 
express  the  happiness  which  we  derive  from  your  presence  and  aid 
in  this  solemn  commemoration. 

Fortunate,  fortunate  man ! with  what  measure  of  devotion  will 
you  not  thank  God  for  the  circumstances  of  your  extraordinary 
fife!  You  are  connected  with  both  hemispheres,  and  with  two 
generations.  Heaven  saw  fit  to  ordain  that  the  electric  spark  of 
liberty  should  be  conducted,  through  you,  from  the  New  World  to 
the  Old;  and,  we  who  are  now  here  to  perform  this  duty  of  patriot- 
ism have  all  of  us  long  ago  received  it  in  charge  from  our  fathers 
to  cherish  your  name  and  your  virtues.  You  will  account  it  an 
instance  of  your  good  fortune,  sir,  that  you  crossed  the  seas  to  visit  us 
at  a time  which  enables  you  to  be  present  at  this  solemnity.  You  now 
behold  the  field,  the  renown  of  which  reached  you  in  the  heart  of 


♦General  Lafayette 


54 


TREASURES  EROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


France,  and  caused  a thrill  in  your  ardent  bosom.  You  see  the 
lines  of  the  little  redoubt  thrown  up  by  the  incredible  diligence  of 
Prescott;  defended,  to  the  last  extremity,  by  his  lion-hearted  valor; 
and,  within  which,  the  corner-stone  of  our  monument  has  now 
taken  its  position.  You  see  where  Warren  fell,  and  where  Parker, 
Gardner,  McCleary,  Moore,  and  other  early  patriots  fell  with  him. 
Those  who  survived  that  day,  and  whose  lives  have  been  prolonged 
to  the  present  hour,  are  now  around  you.  Some  of  them  you  have 
known  in  the  trying  scenes  of  the  war.  Behold ! they  now  stretch 
forth  their  feeble  arms  to  embrace  you.  Behold ! they  raise  their 

trembling  voices  to  invoke  the  blessing  of  God  on  you  and  yours 
forever. 

Sir,  you  have  assisted  us  in  laying  the  foundation  of  this  edifice. 
You  have  heard  us  rehearse,  with  our  feeble  commendation,  the 
names  of  departed  patriots.  Sir,  monuments  and  eulogy  belong  to 
the  dead.  We  give  them  this  day  to  Warren  and  his  associates. 
On  other  occasions,  they  have  been  given  to  your  more  immediate 
companions  in  arms,  to  Washington,  to  Greene,  to  Gates,  Sullivan, 
and  Lincoln.  Sir,  we  have  become  reluctant  to  grant  these,  our 
highest  and  last  honors ; further : we  would  gladly  hold  them  yet 
back  ..  from  the  little  remnant  of  that  immortal  band.  Serus  in 
coslum  redeas.  Illustrious  as  are  your  merits,  yet  far,  Oh,  very  far 
distant  be  the  day,  when  any  inscription  shall  bear  your  name,  or 
any  tongue  pronounce  its  eulogy. 


treasures  from  the  prose  world. 


55 


Happiness. 

She  is  deceitful  as  the  calm  that  precedes  the  hurricane,  smooth 
as  the  water  on  the  verge  of  the  cataract,  and  beautiful  as  the  rain- 
bow, that  smiling  daughter  of  the  storm;  but,  like  the  mirage  in 
the  desert,  she  tantalizes  us  with  a delusion  that  distance  creates 
and  that  contiguity  destroys.  Yet,  when  unsought,  she  is  often 
found,  and  when  unexpected,  often  obtained;  while  those  who  seek 
for  her  the  most  diligently  fail  the  most,  because  they  seek  her 
where  she  is  not.  Anthony  sought  her  in  love;  Brutus,  in  glory; 
Cassar,  in  dominion ; — the  first  found  disgrace,  the  second  disgust, 
the  last  ingratitude,  and  each  destruction.  To  some  she  is  more 
kind,  but  not  less  cruel;  she  hands  them  her  cup  and  they  drink 
even  to  stupefaction,  until  they  doubt  whether  they  are  men,  with 
Philip,  or  dream  that  they  are  gods,  with  Alexander.  On  some 
she  smiles,  as  on  Napoleon,  with  an  aspect  more  bewitching  than 
an  Italian  sun ; but  it  is  only  to  make  her  frown  the  more  terrible, 
and  by  one  short  caress  to  embitter  the  pangs  of  separation.  Yet 
is  she,  by  universal  homage  and  consent,  a queen;  and  the  pas- 
sions are  the  vassal  lords  that  crowd  her  court,  await  her  mandate, 
and  move  at  her  control.  But,  like  other  mighty  sovereigns,  she  is 
so  surrounded  by  her  envoys,  her  officers,  and  her  ministers  of 
state,  that  it  is  extremely  difficult  to  be  admitted  to  her  presence 
chamber,  or  to  have  any  immediate  communication  with  herself. 
Ambition,  avarice,  love,  revenge,  all  these  seek  her,  and  her  alone; 
alas ! they  are  neither  presented  to  her  nor  will  she  come  to  them. 
She  dispatches,  however,  her  envoys  unto  them, — mean  and  poor 
representatives  of  their  queen.  To  ambition,  she  sends  power;  to 
avarice,  wealth;  to  love,  jealousy;  to  revenge,  remorse;  alas!  what 
are  these,  but  so  many  other  names  for  vexation  or  disappoint- 
ment? Neither  is  she  to  be  won  by  flatteries  or  by  bribes — she  is  to 
be  gained  by  waging  war  against  her  enemies , much  sooner  than  by 


56 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


paying  any  particular  court  to  herself.  Those  that  conquer  her 
adversaries  will  find  that  they  need  not  go  to  her,  for  she  will  come 
unto  them.  None  bid  so  high  for  her  as  kings;  few  are  more  will- 
ing, none  are  more  able  to  purchase  her  alliance  at  the  fullest 
price.  But  she  has  no  more  respect  for  kings  than  for  their  sub- 
jects; she  mocks  them,  indeed,  with  the  empty  show  of  a visit,  by 
sending  to  their  palaces  all  her  equipage,  her  pomp,  and  her  train ; 
but  she  comes  not  herself.  What  detains  her?  She  is  traveling 
incognito  to  keep  a private  appointment  with  contentment  and  to 
partake  of  a dinner  of  herbs  in  a cottage. 


The  Music  of  Chill  Laughter. 

The  laugh  of  a child  will  make  the  holiest  day  more  sacred 
still.  Strike  with  hand  of  fire,  0 weird  musician,  thy  harp  strung 
with  Apollo’s  golden  hair!  Fill  the  vast  cathedral  aisles  with  sym- 
phonies sweet  and  dim,  deft  toucher  of  the  organ  keys!  Blow, 
bugle,  blow,  until  thy  silver  notes  do  touch  and  kiss  the  moonlit 
wTaves,  charming  the  wandering  lovers  on  the  vine -clad  hills ; but 
know  your  sweetest  strains  are  discord  all  compared  with  childhood’s 
happy  laugh — the  laugh  that  fills  the  eyes  with  light  and  dimples 
every  cheek  with  joy.  Oh,  rippling  river  of  laughter,  thou  art  the 
blessed  boundary  fine  between  the  beast  and  man,  and  every  way- 
ward wave  of  thine  doth  drown  some  fretful  fiend  of  care. 


VICTOR  HUGO. 


* 


TREASURES  EROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


57 


VICTOR  HUGO. 


ICTOR  HUGO  was  bom  at  Besancon,  on  the  26th  of  Feb- 


ruary, 1802.  His  father,  General  Hugo,  distinguished 


himself  in  the  first  French  Revolution,  under  Napoleon.  His 
mother  was  of  the  old  royalist  Vendean  stock.  Thus  we 
find  that  Victor  Hugo  came  from  a good  family.  He 
received  an  excellent  classical  education  in  France,  and 
afterward  spent  a year  in  Spain,  in  a school  devoted  to  the 
sons  of  nobles.  At  the  age  of  fourteen,  Victor  Hugo  dis- 
tinguished himself  in  the  production  of  a tragedy  called 
Irtamene,  and  two  lyric  pieces  of  excellent  qualities. 

Besides  other  remarkable  works,  he  produced  in  1822  a 
volume  of  Odes  et  Ballades,  in  which,  although  the  old  classic 
form  was  not  quite  thrown  aside,  may  be  discovered  traces 
of  that  romantic  spirit  which  became  the  prevailing  charac- 
teristic of  Victor  Hugo’s  writings.  This  volume  announced 
the  poet  and  author  in  all  the  strength,  richness,  and  bril- 
liancy of  his  genius.  It  raised  Victor  at  once  to  the  highest 
rank  of  modern  poets,  a position  which  he  has  since  main- 
tained. 

His  romance,  Notre  Dame  de  Paris,  in  which  he  dis- 
played treasures  of  style,  of  imagination,  of  antiquarian 
knowledge,  and  great  powers  of  description,  raised  him  to 
the  very  foremost  rank  of  romancers.  In  addition  to  the 
wonderful  powers  of  description,  Victor  Hugo’s  writings 
possess  a cl^rm  and  sonority  of  language,  and  a remarkable 


58  TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 

brilliancy  of  fancy  which  make  his  style  very  picturesque 
and  attractive. 

In  the  Revolution  of  1830,  which  drove  Charles  X from 
his  throne,  Hugo  was  on  the  side  of  the  Revolution.  When 
Louis  Philippe  was  on  the  throne,  he  raised  Victor  Hugo  to 
the  peerage.  When  the  monarchy  was  at  an  end,  Hugo  was 
with  the  Republic,  and  received  the  high  compliment  of  being 
sent  to  the  Assembly  as  a representative  of  the  city  of  Paris. 
In  1851  Hugo  opposed  the  change  in  which  Louis  Napoleon 
established  the  throne  again  in  France.  For  his  opposition 
he  was  obliged  to  leave  his  native  land  and  live  in  exile. 
He  firmly  refused  to  compromise  himself  and  return  to 
France  under  the  rule  of  Louis  Napoleon.  During  the 
greater  portion  of  his  absence  from  his  own  country  he  occu- 
pied Hauteville  House,  a pretty  residence  with  a charming 
garden,  standing  on  the  high  ground  over  St.  Peter’s  Port. 
The  house  belonged  to  the  Queen  of  England.  In  speaking 
of  the  matter,  Hugo  once  said : “My  position  is  somewhat 
anomalous.  I am  a republican,  and  also  a peer  of  France ; 
a Frenchman  in  exile,  who  is  the  tenant  of  a house  held  by 
the  Queen  of  England  as  Duchess  of  Normandy.” 

While  in  exile  Hugo  wrote  quite  extensively  both  in  prose 
and  poetry.  His  Les  Miserable s is  sufficient  to  crown  his  emi- 
nent literary  career,  and,  indeed,  it  is  enough  glory  for  one 
man  to  have  given  birth  to  what  may  be  considered  the 
greatest  work  of  the  imagination  which  the  century  has  pro- 
duced. 

Upon  the  overthrow  of  Louis  Napoleon  in  the  war  with 
Prussia,  and  the  consequent  return  of  France  to  a Republic, 
Victor  Hugo  returned  to  his  native  land.  It  was  a happy 
day  both  to  him  and  his  countrymen  when  the  long  spell  of 
exile  was  broken  and  he  returned  to  his  own  loved  France. 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


59 


A Paradise  on  Earth, 

OR, 

The  Blind  Bishop  and  His  Sister. 

[The  following  charming  selection  is  taken  from  Les  Miserdbles.  It  is  written 
in  remembrance  of  a blind  bishop  who  died  in  1821,  at  the  age  of  eighty-two.  He 
had  been  prominent  in  the  affairs  of  his  country,  and  in  his  old  age  was  satisfied  to 
be  blind,  as  his  sister  wTas  by  his  side.] 

Let  us  say,  parenthetically,  that  to  be  blind  and  to  he  loved,  is 
one  of  the  most  strangely  exquisite  forms  of  happiness  upon  this 
earth,  where  nothing  is  perfect.  To  have  continually  at  your  side 
a wife,  a sister  or  a daughter,  a charming  being,  who  is  there 
because  you  have  need  of  her,  and  because  she  cannot  do  without 
you;  to  know  yourself  indispensable  to  a woman  who  is  necessary 
to  you;  to  be  able  constantly  to  gauge  her  affection  by  the  amount 
of  her  presence  which  she  gives  you,  and  to  say  to  yourself:  “She 
devotes  all  her  time  to  me  because  I possess  her  entire  heart;”  to 
see  her  thoughts  in  default  of  her  face ; to  prove  the  fidelity  of  a 
being  in  the  eclipse  of  the  world;  to  catch  the  rustling  of  a dress 
like  the  sound  of  wings;  to  hear  her  come  and  go,  leave  the  room, 
return,  talk,  sing,  and  then  to  dream  that  you  are  the  center  of 
those  steps,  those  words,  those  songs;  to  manifest  at  every  moment 
your  own  attraction,  and  to  feel  yourself  powerful  in  proportion  to 
your  weakness ; to  become  in  darkness  and  through  darkness  the 
planet  round  which  this  angel  gravitates — but  few  felicities  equal 
this.  The  supreme  happiness  of  life  is  the  conviction  of  being 
loved  for  yourself,  or  more  correctly  speaking,  loved  in  spite  of 
yourself;  and  this  conviction  the  blind  man  has.  In  this  distress 
to  be  served  is  to  be  caressed.  Hoes  he  want  for  anything?  No. 
When  you  possess  love,  you  have  not  lost  the  light.  And  what  a 
love ! a love  entirely  made  of  virtues.  There  is  no  blindness  where 
there  is  certainty;  the  groping  soul  seeks  a soul  and  finds  it,  and 


60 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


this  fond  and  tried  soul  is  woman.  A hand  supports  you,  it  is  hers; 
a mouth  touches  your  forehead,  it  is  hers ; you  hear  a breathing 
close  to  you,  it  is  she. 

To  have  everything  she  has,  from  her  worship  to  her  pity,  to 
be  never  left,  to  have  this  gentle  weakness  to  succor  you,  to  lean 
on  this  unbending  reed,  to  touch  providence  with  her  hands,  and 
be  able  to  take  her  in  your  arms — oh!  what  rapture  this  is!  The 
heart,  that  obscure  celestial  flower,  begins  to  expand  mysteriously, 
and  you  would  not  exchange  this  shadow  for  all  the  light!  The 
angel  soul  is  thus  necessarily  there ; if  she  go  away,  it  is  to  return ; 
she  disappears  like  a dream,  and  reappears  like  a reality.  You  feel 
heat  approaching  you,  it  is  she.  You  overflow  with  serenity, 
ecstacy,  and  gayety;  you  are  a sunbeam  in  the  night.  And  then 
the  thousand  little  attentions,  the  nothings  which  are  so  enormous 
in  this  vacuum ! The  most  ineffable  accents  of  the  human  voice 
employed  to  lull  you,  and  taking  the  place  of  the  vanished  universe! 
You  are  caressed  with  the  soul;  you  see  nothing,  but  you  feel  your- 
self adored ; it  is  a paradise  of  darkness. 


Napoleon  Buonaparte 

[The  selection  given  below  occurs  in  a conversation  between  two  Frenchmen. 
One,  a Republican,  holds  up  his  country  by  saying,  “France  requires  no  Corsica  to  be 
great.  France  is  great  because  she  is  France.”  The  other,  one  of  “The  Old  Guard,” 
with  a strangely  tremulous  voice,  produced  by  his  internal  emotion,  answers, 
“Heaven  forbid  that  I should  diminish  France;  but  it  is  not  diminishing  her  to  amal- 
gamate Napoleon  with  her.”] 

Come,  let  us  talk.  I am  a new-comer  among  you,  but  I con- 
fess that  you  astonisli  me.  * * * * I fancied  you  young 

men,  but  where  do  you  keep  your  enthusiasm,  and  what  do  you  do 
with  it?  Whom  do  you  admire,  if  it  is  not  the  Emperor,  and 
what  more  do  you  want?  If  you  will  not  have  that  great  man, 
what  great  man  would  you  have? 


TEEASUEES  FEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


61 


He  had  everything,  he  was  complete,  and  in  his  brain  was  the 
cube  of  human  faculties.  He  made  codes  like  Justinian,  and  dic- 
tated like  Caesar;  his  conversation  blended  the  lightning  of  Pascal 
with  the  thunder  of  Tacitus;  he  made  history  and  wrote  it,  and 
his  bulletins  are  Iliads;  he  combined  the  figures  of  Newton  with 
the  metaphor  of  Mahomet. 

He  left  behind  him  in  the  east  worlds  great  as  the  pyramids, 
at  Tilsit  he  taught  majesty  to  emperors,  at  the  Academy  of  Science 
he  answered  Laplace,  at  the  Council  of  State  he  held  his  own 
against  Merlin,  he  gave  a soul  to  the  geometry  of  one  and  to  the 
sophistry  of  others,  for  he  was  a legist  with  the  lawyers,  a sidereal 
with  the  astronomers.  Like  Cromwell,  blowing  out  one  of  two 
candles,  he  went  to  the  temple  to  bargain  for  a curtain  tassel;  he 
saw  everything,  knew  everything,  hut  that  did  not  prevent  him 
from  laughing  heartily  by  the  cradle  of  his  new-horn  son.  And,  all 
at  once,  startled  Europe  listened,  armies  set  out,  parks  of  artillery 
rolled  along,  bridges  of  boats  were  thrown  over  rivers,  clouds  of 
cavalry  galloped  in  the  hurricane,  and  shouts,  bugles,  and  crashing 
of  thrones  could  he  heard  all  around.  The  frontiers  of  kingdoms 
oscillated  on  the  map,  the  sound  of  a superhuman  sword  being 
drawn  from  its  scabbard  could  be  heard,  and  he  was  seen,  standing 
erect  on  the  horizon,  with  a gleam  in  his  hand,  and  a splendor  in 
his  eye,  opening  in  the  thunder  of  his  two  wings,  the  Grand  Army 
and  the  Old  Guard.  He  was  the  archangel  of  war. 

Let  us  be  just,  my  friends ! What  a splendid  destiny  it  is  for 
a people  to  be  the  empire  of  such  an  emperor,  when  that  people  is 
France  and  adds  its  genius  to  the  genius  of  that  man.  To  appear 
and  reign;  to  march  and  triumph;  to  have  as  bivouacs  every 
capital;  to  select  grenadiers  and  make  kings  of  them;  to  decree 
the  downfall  of  dynasties;  to  transfigure  Europe  at  double  quick 
steps;  to  feel  when  you  threaten  that  you  lay  your  hand  on  the 
sword-hilt  of  God;  to  follow  in  one  man  Hannibal,  Cassar,  and 
Charlemagne ; to  be  the  people  of  a ruler  who  accompanies  your 
every  day-break  with  the  brilliant  announcement  of  a battle  gained; 
to  be  aroused  in  the  morning  by  the  guns  of  the  Invalides ; to  cast 


62 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


into  the  abysses  of  light  prodigious  words  which  are  eternally  lum- 
inous— Marengo,  Areola,  Austerlitz,  Jena,  and  Wagram! — to  pro- 
duce at  each  moment  on  the  zenith  of  centuries  constellations  of 
victories;  to  make  the  French  Emperor  a pendant  of  the  Roman 
Empire;  to  be  the  great  nation,  and  give  birth  to  the  great  army; 
to  send  legions  all  over  the  world,  as  the  mountain  sends  its  eagles 
in  all  directions  to  conquer,  rule,  and  crush;  to  be  in  Europe  a 
people  gilt  by  glory;  to  sound  a Titanic  flourish  of  trumpets 
through  history;  to  conquer  the  world  twice,  by  conquest  and  by 
amazement — all  this  is  sublime. 


A Heart  Beneath,  a Stone. 

[The  sentiments  which  we  copy  here  are  extremely  beautiful.  A Frenchman,  who 
by  his  political  opinions  was  obliged  to  live  in  secret,  communicated  with  his  lady 
by  leaving  a letter  beneath  a stone.  The  rest  is  fully  explained  in  the  following :] 

She  raised  the  stone,  which  was  of  some  size,  and  there  was 
something  under  it  that  resembled  a letter;  it  was  an  envelope  of 
white  paper.  Cosette  seized  it;  there  was  no  address  on  it,  and  it 
was  not  sealed  up.  Still  the  envelope,  though  open,  was  not  empty, 
for  papers  could  be  seen  inside.  Cosette  no  longer  suffered  from 
terror,  nor  was  it  curiosity:  it  was  a commencement  of  anxiety. 
Cosette  took  out  a small  quire  of  paper,  each  page  of  which  was 
numbered,  and  bore  several  lines  written  in  a very  nice  and  delicate 
hand,  so  Cosette  thought.  She  looked  for  a name,  but  there  was 
none;  for  a signature,  but  there  was  none,  either.  For  whom  was 
the  packet  intended?  probably  for  herself,  as  a hand  had  laid  it 
on  the  bench.  From  whom  did  it  come?  An  irresistible  fascin- 
ation seized  upon  her.  She  tried  to  turn  her  eyes  away  from 
these  pages,  which  trembled  in  her  hand.  She  looked  at  the  sky, 
the  street,  the  acacias  all  bathed  in  light,  the  pigeons  circling 
round  an  adjoining  roof,  and  then  her  eyes  settled  on  the  manu- 


I 


- 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD.  63 

script,  and  she  said  to  herself  that  she  must  know  what  was 
inside  it.  This  is  what  she  read : 

The  reduction  of  the  universe  to  a single  being,  the  dilation  of 
a single  being  as  far  as  God,  such  is  love. 

Love  is  the  salutation  of  the  angels  to  the  stars. 


How  sad  is  the  soul  when  it  is  sad  through  love ! What  a void 
is  the  absence  of  the  being,  who  of  her  own  self  fills  the  world. 
Oh!  how  true  it  is  that  the  beloved  being  becomes  God!  We 
might  understand  how  God  might  be  jealous  «f  her,  had  not  the 
Father  of  all  evidently  made  creation  for  the  soul,  and  the  soul  for 
love. 


God  is  behind  everything,  but  everything  conceals  God. 
Things  are  black  and  creatures  are  opaque,  but  to  love  a being  is 
to  render  her  transparent. 

Certain  thoughts  are  prayers.  There  are  moments  when  the 
soul  is  kneeling,  no  matter  what  the  attitude  of  the  body  may  he. 


0 love,  adoration ! voluptuousness  of  two  minds  which  com- 
prehend each  other,  of  two  hearts  which  are  exchanged,  of  two 
glances  which  penetrate  one  another.  You  will  come  to  me,  0 
happiness,  wild- you  not?  Walks  with  her  in  the  solitudes,  blest, 
and  radiant  days ! I have  dreamed  that  from  time  to  time  hours 
were  detached  from  the  fives  of  angels,  and  came  down  here  to 
traverse  the  destinies  of  men. 


God  can  add  nothing  to  the  happiness  of  those  who  love, 
except  giving  them  endless  duration.  After  a fife  of  love,  an  eter- 
nity of  love  is  in  truth  an  augmentation ; but  it  is  impossible  even 
for  God  to  increase  in  its  intensity  the  ineffable  felicity  which  love 
gives  to  the  soul  in  this  world.  God  is  the  fullness  of  heaven,  love 
is  the  fullness  of  man. 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


64 


You  gaze  at  a star  for  two  motives : because  it  is  luminous  and 
because  it  is  impenetrable.  You  have  by  your  side  a sweeter  radi- 
ance and  greater  mystery — woman. 


When  love  has  blended  and  molded  two  beings  in  an  angelic 
and  sacred  union,  they  have  found  the  secret  of  life;  henceforth 
they  are  only  the  two  terms  of  the  same  destiny,  the  two  wings  of 
one  mind.  Love  and  soar ! 


If  you  are  a stone,  be  a magnet;  if  you  are  a plant,  be  sensi- 
tive; if  you  are  a man,  be  love. 

Love  is  the  celestial  breathing  of  the  atmosphere  of  paradise. 


I have  met  in  the  street  a very  poor  young  man  who  was  in 
love.  His  hat  was  old,  his  coat  worn,  his  coat  was  out  at  elbows, 
the  water  passed  through  his  shoes,  and  the  stars  through  his  soul. 


What  a grand  thing  it  is  to  be  loved ! What  a grander  thing 
still  to  love!  The  heart  becomes  heroic  by  the  might  of  passion. 
Henceforth  it  is  composed  of  nought  but  what  is  pure,  and  is  only 
supported  by  what  is  elevated  and  great.  An  unworthy  thought 
can  no  more  germinate  in  it  than  a nettle  on  a glacier.  The  lofty 
and  serene  soul,  inaccessible  to  emotions  and  vulgar  passions,  soar- 
ing above  the  clouds  and  shadows  of  the  world,  follies,  falsehoods, 
hatreds,  vanities,  and  miseries,  dwells  in  the  azure  of  the  sky,  and 
henceforth  only  feels  the  profound  and  subterranean  heavings  of 
destiny  as  the  summit  of  the  mountains  feels  earthquakes. 


If  there  were  nobody  who  loved,  the  sun  would  be  extinguished. 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


65 


Advice  to  a Would-Be  Criminal, 

[A  young  man  sought  to  murder  an  elderly  citizen  for  his  money.  In  the  struggle 
the  young  man  was  overcome  by  his  intended  victim  and  held  by  an  iron  grasp. 
While  in  this  situation  the  citizen  gave  his  intended  murderer  the  following  excellent 
lecture:] 

“My  boy,  you  are  entering  by  sloth  into  the  most  laborious  of 
existences.  Ah ! you  declare  yourself  an  idler,  then  prepare  your- 
self for  labor.  Have  you  ever  seen  a formidable  machine  which  is 
called  a flatting-press?  You  must  be  on  your  guard  against  it,  for 
it  is  a crafty  and  ferocious  thing,  and  if  it  catches  you  by  the  skirt 
of  the  coat  it  drags  you  under  it  entirely.  This  machine  is  indo- 
lence. Stop  while  there  is  yet  time,  and  save  yourself,  otherwise 
it  is  all  over  with  you,  and  ere  long  you  will  be  among  the 
cog-wheels.  Once  caught,  hope  for  nothing  more.  You  will  be 
forced  to  fatigue  yourself,  idler,  and  no  rest  will  be  allowed  you* 
for  the  iron  hand  of  implacable  toil  has  seized  you.  You  refuse  to 
earn  your  livelihood,  have  a calling,  and  accomplish  a duty;  it 
bores  you  to  be  like  the  rest — well,  you  will  be  different.  Labor  is 
the  law,  and  whoever  repulses  it  as  a bore  must  have  it  as  a punish- 
ment. You  do  not  wish  to  be  a laborer,  and  you  will  be  a slave; 
toil  only  lets  you  loose  on  one  side  to  seize  you  again  on  the  other; 
you  do  not  wish  to  be  its  friend,  and  you  will  be  its  negro.  Ah, 
you  did  not  care  for  the  honest  fatigue  of  men,  and  you  are  about 
to  know  the  sweat  of  the  damned;  while  others  sing  you  will  groan. 
You  will  see  other  men  working  in  the  distance,  and  they  will  seem 
to  you  to  be  resting.  The  laborer,  the  reaper,  the  sailor,  the 
blacksmith,  will  appear  to  you  in  the  light,  like  the  blessed  inmates 
of  a paradise. 

“What  a radiance  there  is  in  the  anvil;  what  joy  it  is  to  guide 
the  plow  and  tie  up  the  sheaf ; what  a holiday  to  fly  before  the  wind 
in  a boat ! But  you,  idler,  will  have  to  dig,  and  drag,  and  roll,  and 
walk ! Pull  at  your  halter,  for  you  are  a beast  of  burden  in  the 


5 


66 


TEEASUEES  FEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


service  of  hell!  So  your  desire  is  to  do  nothing?  Well,  you  will 
not  have  a week,  a day,  an  hour  without  feeling  crushed.  You  will 
not  he  able  to  lift  anything  without  agony,  and  every  passing 
minute  will  make  your  muscles  crack.  What  is  a feather  for  others 
will  be  a rock  for  you,  and  the  most  simple  things  will  grow  scarped. 
Life  will  become  a monster  around  you,  and  coming,  going,  breath- 
ing, will  be  so  many  terrible  tasks  for  you.  Your  lungs  will  pro- 
duce in  you  the  effect  of  a hundred-pound  weight,  and  going  there 
sooner  than  here  will  be  a problem  to  solve.  Any  man  who  wishes 
to  go  out,  merely  opens  his  door  and  finds  himself  in  the  street; 
hut  if  you  wish  to  go  out  you  must  pierce  through  your  wall.  What 
do  honest  men  do  to  reach  to  street?  They  go  down  stairs;  hut 
you  will  tear  up  your  sheets,  make  a cord  of  them,  fiber  by  fiber, 
then  pass  through  your  window  and  hang  by  this  thread  over  an 
abyss,  and  it  will  take  place  at  night,  in  the  storm,  the  rain,  or  the 
hurricane,  and  if  the  cord  be  too  short  you  will  have  but  one  way 
of  descending,  by  falling — falling  hap-hazard  into  the  gulf,  and 
from  any  height,  and  on  what?  On  some  unknown  thing  beneath. 
Or  you  will  climb  up  a chimney  at  the  risk  of  burning  yourself,  or 
Qrawl  through  a sewer  at  the  risk  of  drowning.  I will  say  nothing 
of  the  holes  which  must  be  masked,  of  the  stones  which  you  will 
have  to  remove  and  put  back  twenty  times  a day,  or  of  the  plaster 
you  must  hide  under  your  mattress.  A lock  presents  itself,  and  the 
citizen  has  in  his  pocket  the  key  for  it,  made  by  the  locksmith. 
But  you,  if  you  wish  to  go  out,  are  condemned  to  make  a terrible 
masterpiece;  you  will  take  a double  sou  and  cut  it  asunder  with 
tools  of  your  own  invention— that  is  your  business.  Then  you  will 
hollow  out  the  interior  of  the  two  parts,  being  careful  not  to  injure 
the  outside,  and  form  a thread  all  round  the  edge,  so  that  the  two 
parts  may  fit  closely  like  a box  and  its  cover.  When  they  are 
screwed  together  there  will  be  nothing  suspicious  to  the  watchers — - 
for  you  will  be  watched — it  will  be  a double  sou,  but  for  yourself  a 
box.  What  will  you  place  in  this  box?  A small  piece  of  steel,  a 
watch-spring  in  which  you  have  made  teeth,  and  which  will  be  a 
saw.  With  this  saw,  about  the  length  of  a pin,  you  will  be  obhged 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


67 


to  cut  through  the  holt  of  the  lock,  the  padlock  of  your  chain,  the 
bar  at  your  window,  and  the  fetter  on  your  leg.  This  masterpiece 
done,  this  prodigy  accomplished,  all  the  miracles  of  art,  skill,  clever- 
ness and  patience  executed,  what  will  he  your  reward  if  you  are 
detected?  A dungeon.  Such  is  the  future.  What  precipices  are 
sloth  and  pleasure!  To  do  nothing  is  a melancholy  resolution;  are 
you  aware  of  that?  To  live  in  indolence  on  the  social  substance, 
to  he  useless,  that  is  to  say,  injurious ! This  leads  straight  to  the 
bottom  of  the  misery.  Woe  to  the  man  who  wishes  to  be  a para- 
site, for  he  will  he  a vermin!  Ah!  it  does  not  please  you  to  work! 
Ah ! you  have  only  one  thought : to  drink  well,  eat  well,  and  sleep 
well.  You  will  drink  water,  you  will  -eat  black  bread,  you  will 
sleep  on  a plank  with  fetters  riveted  to  your  limbs  and  feel  their 
coldness  at  night  in  your  flesh ! You  will  break  these  fetters  and 
fly?  Very  good.  You  will  drag  yourself  on  your  stomach  into  the 
shrubs  and  eat  grass  like  the  beasts  of  the  field,  and  you  will  he 
recaptured,  and  then  you  will  pass  years  in  a dungeon,  chained  to 
the  wall,  groping  in  the  dark  for  your  water-jug,  biting  at  frightful 
black  bread  which  dogs  would  refuse,  and  eating  beans  which 
maggots  have  eaten  before  you.  You  will  he  a wood-louse  in  a 
cellar.  Ah,  ah ! take  pity  on  yourself,  wretched  boy,  still  so  young, 
who  were  at  your  nurse’s  breast  not  twenty  years  ago,  and  have 
doubtless  a mother  still ! I implore  you  to  listen  to  me.  You  want 
fine  black  cloth,  polished  shoes,  to  scent  your  head  with  fragrant 
oil,  to  please  creatures  and  be  a pretty  fellow ; you  will  have  your 
hair  close  shaven,  and  wear  a red  jacket  and  wooden  shoes.  You 
want  a ring  on  your  finger,  and  will  wear  a collar  on  your  neck 
and  if  you  look  at  a woman  you  will  he  beaten ; and  you  will  go  in 
there  at  twenty  and  come  out  at  fifty  years  of  age ; you  will  go  in 
young,  red-cheeked,  healthy,  with  your  sparkling  eyes,  and  all  your 
white  teeth  and  your  curly  locks,  and  you  will  come  out  again  broken, 
bent,  wrinkled,  toothless,  horrible  and  gray-headed!  Ah,  my  poor 
boy,  you  are  on  the  wrong  road,  and  indolence  is  a bad  adviser,  for 
robbery  is  the  hardest  of  labors.  Take  my  advice,  and  do  not 
undertake  the  laborious  task  of  being  an  idler.  To  become  a rogue 


68 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


is  inconvenient,  and  it  is  not  nearly  so  hard  to  be  an  honest  man 
Now  go  and  think  over  what  I have  said  to  you.  By  the  by, 
what  did  you  want  of  me?  My  purse?  Here  it  is.”  And  the  old 
man,  releasing  Montparnasse,  placed  his  purse  in  his  hand,  which 
Montparnasse  weighed  for  a moment,  after  which,  with  the  same 
mechanical  precaution  as  if  he  had  stolen  it,  Montparnasse  let  it 
glide  gently  into  the  back-pocket  of  his  coat.  All  this  said  and 
done,  the  old  gentleman  turned  his  back  and  quietly  resumed  his 
walk. 


A Glass  of  Cold  Water. 

Where  is  the  liquor  which  God,  the  Eternal,  brews  for  all  his 
children?  Not  in  the  simmering  still,  over  smoky  fires  choked  with 
poisonous  gases,  surrounded  with  the  stench  of  sickening  odors 
and  rank  corruptions  doth  your  Father  in  Heaven  prepare  the 
precious  essence  of  life,  the  pure  cold  water.  But  in  the  green 
glade  and  grassy  dell,  where  the  red  deer  wanders  and  the  child 
loves  to  play;  there  God  brews  it.  And  down,  low  down  in  the  low- 
est valleys,  where  the  fountains  murmur  and  the  rills  sing;  and  high 
upon  the  tall  mountain  tops,  where  the  naked  granite  glitters  like 
gold  in  the  sun ; where  the  storm-cloud  broods,  and  the  thunder- 
storms crash ; and  away,  far  out  on  the  wide,  wild  sea,  where  the 
hurricane  howls  music,  and  the  big  waves  roar ; the  chorus  sweeping 
the  march  of  God;  there  He  brews  it — that  beverage  of  life  and 
health-giving  water.  And  everywhere  it  is  a thing  of  beauty, 
gleaming  in  the  dew-drop ; singing  in  the  summer  rain ; shining  in 
the  ice-gems  till  the  leaves  all  seem  to  turn  to  living  jewels;  spread- 
ing a golden  veil  over  the  setting  sun,  or  a white  gauze  around  the 
midnight  moon ; sporting  in  the  cataract,  sleeping  in  the  glacier, 
dancing  in  the  hail  shower,  folding  its  bright  snow  curtains  softly 
about  the  wintry  world,  and  waving  the  many-colored  iris,  thaf 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


(59 


seraph’s  zone  of  the  sky,  whose  warp  is  the  rain-drop  of  earth, 
whose  woof  is  the  sunbeam  of  heaven,  all  checkered  over  with 
celestial  flowers  by  the  mystic  hand  of  refraction. 

Still  always  it  is  beautiful,  that  life-giving  water;  no  poison 
bubbles  on  its  brink ; its  foam  brings  not  madness  and  murder ; no 
blood  stains  its  liquid  glass ; pale  widows  and  starving  orphans  weep 
no  burning  tears  in  its  depth;  no  drunken,  shrieking  ghost  from  the 
grave  curses  it  in  the  words  of  eternal  despair.  Speak  on,  my  friends, 
would  you  exchange  it  for  demon’s  drink,  alcohol? 


The  Schoolmaster. 

It  has  been  to  me  a source  of  pleasure,  though  a melancholy 
one,  that  in  rendering  this  public  tribute  to  the  worth  of  our  de- 
parted friend,  the  respectable  members  of  two  bodies,  one  of  them 
most  devoted  and  efficient  in  its  scientific  inquiries,  the  other  com- 
prising so  many  names  eminent  for  philanthropy  and  learning, 
have  met  to  do  honor  to  the  memory  of  a schoolmaster. 

There  are  prouder  themes  for  the  eulogist  than  this.  The 
praise  of  the  statesman,  the  warrior  or  the  orator  furnish  more 
splendid  topics  for  ambitious  eloquence ; but  no  theme  can  be  more 
rich  in  desert  or  more  fruitful  in  public  advantage. 

The  enlightened  liberality  of  many  of  our  state  governments, 
— amongst  which  we  may  claim  a proud  distinction  for  our  own — by 
extending  the  common  school  system  over  their  whole  population, 
has  brought  elementary  education  to  the  door  of  every  family.  In 
this  State,  it  appears  from  the  annual  reports  of  the  secretary  of  the 
State, there  are,  besides  the  fifty  incorporated  academies  and  numer- 
ous private  schools,  about  nine  thousand  school  districts,  in  each  of 
which  instruction  is  regularly  given.  These  contain  at  present  half 
a million  of  children  taught  in  the  single  State  of  New  York.  To 
these  may  be  added  nine  or  ten  thousand  more  youth  in  the  higher 
seminaries  of  learning,  exclusive  of  the  colleges. 


70 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


Of  what  incalculable  influence,  then,  for  good  or  for  evil,  upon 
the  dearest  interests  of  society,  must  be  the  estimate  entertained 
for  the  character  of  this  great  body  of  teachers,  and  the  consequent 
respectability  of  the  individuals  who  compose  it! 

At  the  recent  general  election  in  this  State  the  votes  of  above 
three  hundred  thousand  persons  were  taken.  In  thirty  years  the 
great  majority  of  these  will  have  passed  away;  their  rights  will  be 
exercised  and  their  duties  assumed  by  those  very  children  whose 
minds  are  now  open  to  receive  their  earliest  and  most  durable  im- 
pressions from  the  ten  thousand  schoolmasters  of  this  State. 

What  else  is  there,  in  the  whole  of  our  social  system,  of  such  ex- 
tensive and  powerful  operation  on  the  national  character?  There 
is  one  other  influence  more  powerful,  and  but  one.  It  is  that  of 
the  Mothek.  The  forms  of  a free  government,  the  provisions  of 
wise  legislation,  the  schemes  of  the  statesman,  the  sacrifices  of  the 
patriot,  are  as  nothing  compared  with  these.  If  the  future  citizens 
of  our  republic  are  to  be  worthy  of  their  rich  inheritance,  they  must 
be  made  so  principally  through  the  virtue  and  intelligence  of  their 
mothers.  It  is  in  the  sphool  of  maternal  tenderness  that  the  kind 
affections  must  be  first  roused  and  made  habitual,  the  early  senti- 
ment of  piety  awakened  and  rightly  directed,  the  sense  of  duty  and 
moral  responsibility  unfolded  and  enlightened.  But  next  in  rank 
and  in  efficacy  to  that  pure  and  holy  source  of  moral  influence  is 
that  of  the  schoolmaster.  It  is  powerful  already.  What  would  it 
be  if  in  every  one  of  those  school  districts  which  we  now  count  by 
annually  increasing  thousands,  there  were  to  be  found  one  teacher 
well-informed  without  pedantry,  religious  without  bigotry  or  fanat- 
icism, proud  and  fond  of  his  profession,  and  honored  in  the  discharge 
of  his  duties!  How  wide  would  be  the  intellectual,  the  moral 
influence  of  such  a body  of  men!  Many  such  we  have  already 
amongst  us — men  humbly  wise  and  obscurely  useful,  whom  jioverty 
cannot  depress  nor  neglect  degrade.  But  to  raise  up  a body  of  such 
men  as  numerous  as  the  wants  and  the  dignity  of  the  country  de- 
in and,  their  labors  must  be  fitly  remunerated  and  themselves  and 
their  calling  cherished  and  honored. 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


71 


The  schoolmaster’s  occupation  is  laborious  and  ungrateful ; its 
rewards  are  scanty  and  precarious.  He  may  indeed  be,  and  he 
ought  to  be,  animated  by  the  consciousness  of  doing  good,  that 
best  of  all  considerations,  that  noblest  of  all  motives.  But  that, 
too,  must  be  often  clouded  by  doubt  and  uncertainty.  Obscure 
and  inglorious  as  his  daily  occupation  may  appear  to  learned 
pride  or  worldly  ambition,  yet  to  be  truly  successful  and  happy, 
he  must  be  animated  by  the  spirit  of  the  same  great  principles 
which  inspired  the  most  illustrious  benefactors  of  mankind.  If 
he  bring  to  his  task  high  talent  and  rich  acquirements,  he 
must  be  content  to  look  into  distant  years  for  the  proof  that 
his  labors  have  not  been  wasted,  that  the  good  seed  which 
he  daily  scatters  abroad  does  not  fall  on  stony  ground  and 
wither  away;  or  among  thorns,  to  be  choked  by  the  cares,  the  delu- 
sions or  the  vices  of  the  world.  He  must  solace  his  toils  with  the 
same  prophetic  faith  that  enabled  the  greatest  of  modern  philoso- 
phers, amidst  the  neglect  or  contempt  of  his  own  times,  to  regard 
himself  as  sowing  the  seeds  of  truth  for  posterity  and  the  care  of 
Heaven.  He  must  arm  himself  against  disappointment  and  mor- 
tification with  a portion  of  that  same  noble  confidence  which  soothed 
the  greatest  of  modern  poets  when  weighed  down  by  care  and  dan- 
ger, by  poverty,  old  age  and  blindness — still 

“In  prophetic  dream  he  saw 
The  youth  unborn,  with  pious  awe 
Imbibe  each  virtue  from  his  sacred  page.” 

He  must  know,  and  he  must  love  to  teach  his  pupils,  not  the 
meager  elements  of  knowledge,  but  the  secret  and  the  use  of  their 
own  intellectual  strength,  exciting  and  enabling  them  hereafter  to 
raise  for  themselves  the  veil  which  covers  the  majestic  form  of 
Truth.  He  must  feel  deeply  the  reverence  due  to  the  youthful 
mind,  fraught  with  mighty  though  undeveloped  energies  and  affec- 
tions, and  mysterious  and  eternal  destinies.  Thence  he  must  have 
learnt  to  reverence  himself  and  his  profession  and  to  look  upon  its 
otherwise  ill-requited  toils  as  their  own  exceeding  great  reward. 

If  such  are  the  difficulties  and  the  discouragements,  such  the 


72 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


duties,  the  motives  and  the  consolations  of  teachers  who  are  worthy 
of  that  name  and  trust,  how  imperious,  then,  the  obligation  upon 
every  enlightened  citizen  who  knows  and  feels  the  value  of  such 
men  to  aid  them,  to  cheer  them  and  honor  them ! 

But  let  us  not  be  content  with  barren  honor  to  buried  merit. 
Let  us  prove  our  gratitude  to  the  dead  by  faithfully  endeavoring  to 
elevate  the  station,  to  enlarge  the  usefulness  and  to  raise  the  char- 
acter of  the  schoolmaster  amongst  us.  Thus  shall  we  best  testify 
our  gratitude  to  the  teachers  and  guides  of  our  own  youth,  thus 
best  serve  our  country,  and  thus  most  effectually  diffuse  over  our 
land  light,  and  truth,  and  virtue. 


Admiration  of  Genius. 

There  is  a certain  charm  about  great  superiority  of  intellect 
that  winds  into  deep  affections,  which  a much  more  constant  and 
even  amiability  of  manners  in  lesser  men,  often  fails  to  reach. 
Genius  makes  many  enemies,  but  it  makes  sure  friends,  friends  who 
forgive  much,  who  endure  long,  who  exact  little;  they  partake  of  the 
character  of  disciples  as  well  as  friends.  There  lingers  about  the 
human  heart  a strong  inclination  to  look  upward — to  revere ; in  this 
inclination  lies  the  source  of  religion,  of  loyalty,  and  also  of  the  wor- 
ship and  immortality  which  are  rendered  so  cheerfully  to  the  great  of 
old.  And,  in  truth,  it  is  a divine  pleasure  to  admire.  Admiration 
seems,  in  some  measure,  to  appropriate  to  ourselves  the  qualities  it 
honors  in  others.  We  wed — we  root  ourselves  to  the  natures  we 
so  love  to  contemplate,  and  their  life  grows  a part  of  our  own. 
Thus,  when  a great  man,  who  has  engrossed  our  thoughts,  our 
conjectures,  our  homage,  dies,  a gap  seems  suddenly  left  in  the  world 
— a wheel  in  the  mechanism  of  our  own  being  appears  abruptly 
stilled;  a portion  of  ourselves,  and  not  our  worst  portion — for  how 
many  pure, high,  generous  sentiments  it  contains — dies  with  him. 


TEEASUEES  FEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


78 


BENJAMINE  F.  TAYLOR 


BENJAMINE  FRANKLIN  TAYLOR,  one  of  America’s  most 
gifted  and  entertaining  authors  and  lecturers,  was  born 
in  Lowville,  N.  Y.,  in  1822.  He  received  his  education  at 
Madison  University,  New  York,  under  the  tutorship  of  his 
father,  who  was  at  that  time  president  of  the  institution. 
Mr.  Taylor  has  been  an  active  and  popular  worker  in  the 
literary  field.  The  Attractions  of  Language  appeared  in 
1845,  and  January  and  June , in  1853.  From  the  latter  vol- 
ume of  charming  essays  and  poems  we  have  made  our  selec- 
tions. No  one  who  admires  beautiful  word-pictures,  fine 
sentiment,  and  a clear  and  entertaining  literary  style,  can 
afford  to  be  without  the  volumes  of  B.  F.  Taylor. 

For  many  years  he  was  literary  editor  of  the  Chicago 
“Evening  Journal.”  During  the  late  war  he  was  the  “Jour- 
nal’s” principal  war  correspondent.  Many  of  his  letters 
have  been  gathered  together  and  published  under  the  title  of 
Pictures  in  Catnip  and  Field . 

His  pictures  are  so  perfect,  and  his  words  so  admirably 
selected,  that  in  reading  them  we  live  again  our  soldier  life. 
We  hear  the  rattle  of  musketry,  and  the  roar  of  artillery  ; 
and  wre  see  the  advancing  columns  and  fhe  terrible  conflict 
as  the  armies  contest  in  a hand-to-hand  struggle ; and  when 
the  winds  have  lifted  the  black  smoke,  we  see  the  terrible 
work  of  battle,  and  we  again  earnestly  pray  a kind  Father 
to  spread  the  mantled  mourning  of  night  over  the  scene. 

Mr.  Taylor  published  The  World  on  Wheels  in  1873,  and 


V74 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


Old  Time  Pictures  and  Sheaves  of  Rhyme  in  1874.  All  of  his 
works  have  passed  through  several  editions.  He  has  been 
very  popular  on  the  lyceum  platform. 

It  will  pay  us,  kind  friends,  to  read  the  volumes  of  Tay- 
lor. They  contain  the  beautiful  wish  that  “our  lives  and  his 
may  not  be  composed  of  random  ‘scores,’  but  be  a beau- 
tiful anthem,  harmony  in  all  its  parts,  melody  in  all  its 
tones ; not  a strain  wanting,  not  a note  out  of  tune ; till 
‘the  daughters  of  music  are  brought  low,’  and  the  life- 
anthem  is  ended.” 

“But  isn’t  it  a pleasant  thought  that  perhaps  somebody 
may  take  up  the  tune,  when  we  are  dead — not  a note  lost, 
nor  a jar,  nor  a discord,  but  all  swan-like  harmony? 
Perhaps ! perhaps ! There  is  something  hollow,  like  a 
knell,  in  that  word.  The  veil  that  hides  the  future  is  woven 
of  ‘perhaps ;’  in  it  the  greatest  ills  have  their  solace,  the 
brightest  joys  their  cloud.” 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


75 


At  the  Open  Window. 

Here  I am,  to-day,  sitting  by  an  open  window,  the  wind  as  gen- 
tle as  June,  playfully  lifting  the  corners  of  the  paper  I write  on,  and 
letting  them  softly  down  again;  while  yesterday,  or  the  day  before, 
I was  in  perihelion,  nestled  close  in  the  chimney-corner;  and  wind 
— could  it  have  been  this  same  wind,  now  toying  with  the  tassel  of 
the  curtain,  that  in  such  a mood  twisted  up  a little  oak  by  the  roots, 
that  never  did  any  harm,  and  hollow- voiced  and  frosty  from  the  dim 
northwest,  made  penny-wThistles  of  the  huge,  old-fashioned  chim- 
ney-tops? Nature  is  a good  deal  of  a rhetorician;  she  loves  rapid 
transitions  and  startling  contrasts. 

Time,  itself,  all  through  the  long-drawn  past,  is  inlaid  with  day 
and  night — night  and  day.  Suppose  it  had  been  all  day  through 
the  world;  it  would  have  been  “all  day”  with  us — our  happiness,  our 
interests,  and  life  would  be  “dull”  at  eighty  cents  on  the  dollar. 
Now,  we  are  like  those  wandering  at  leisure  from  room  to  room,  in 
some  splendid  suite  of  apartments,  divided  by  the  dark  and  marble 
walls  of  night.  We  enter  some  beautiful  day,  pearl  for  its  threshold 
and  crimson  for  its  curtains.  With  what  music  they  rustle  as  un- 
seen hands  lift  them  to  let  us  through ! And  what  varied  surprises 
keep  us  on  the  qui  vive  all  along,  as  we  pass  through  it ! And  how 
gorgeous  the  drapery  let  down  behind  us,  as  we  enter  the  dark  open- 
ing in  the  walls  of  night — those  walls  God  built,  and  yet,  through 
which,  at  a thousand  points,  shine  divided  days,  yesterday,  and  to- 
morrow ! 

And  what  a lamp — no  “Astral,”  but  a true  Lunar,  is  hung  in 
the  passage-way;  and  then,  when  we  have  done  wandering  through 
this  great  temple  of  Time,  and  pass  the  last  door,  and  the  veil  closes 
down  before  the  last  day,  and  we  find  ourselves  “out  doors”  in  the 
universe,  and  free  to  go  whither  we  will — children  again — aye,  chil- 
Iren  “just  let  loose  from  school.”How  we  shall  scatter  away  ove** 


76 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


fields  all  flowers,  and  no  frosts,  where  there  is  no  such  word  as 
November,  and  no  such  thought  as  death.  Life  will  be  life  still,  but 
without  its  struggle,  and  ourselves  still  ourselves,  but  with  windows 
all  around  the  soul.  We  shall  see  hearts  beat  as  plainly  then,  as 
we  now  see  the  movements  of  delicate  chronometers  beneath  their 
crystal  cases — emotions  will  be  visible — the  footfalls  of  thought 
audible — the  trickery  of  light  and  shade  by-gone,  and  things  will 
appear  as  they  are. 

And  the  pleasant  surprises  that  shall  meet  us  there;  perhaps 
the  trees  will  grow  by  music,  and  the  streams  murmur  articulate ; 
perhaps  we  shall  meet  and  recognize  those  who  had  gone  on  before. 
New  scenes,  new  beauties,  new  thought — everywhere  “plus  ultra ” — 
more  beyond. 


And  Such  a Change. 

The  glories  of  twilight  have  departed,  and  the  gray  night  of  the 
year  has,  at  last,  set  in. 

The  tree  by  my  window  has  thrown  off  the  red  and  yellow  liv- 
ery it  has  worn  of  late,  and  with  naked  arms  tossing  wildly  about, 
stands  shivering  in  the  gusts,  dismantled  and  desolate.  Strange  to 
say,  I love  it  better  than  when  song  and  shadow  met  in  its  branches 
— better  than  ever;  but  it  is  not  a love  born  of  pity;  it  needs  none, 
for  its  life  is  locked  up  safely  in  the  earth  beneath,  and  whistle  as  it 
will,  the  boatswain  of  aWinter  wind  cannot  pipe  up  a pulse  or  a bud. 
Through  its  leafless  limbs  I can  see  Heaven,  now,  and  there  are  no 
stars  in  the  trees  in  June.  The  sweet  brier  creaks  uneasily  against 
the  wall;  the  snow  is  heaped  on  the  window  sill;  the  frost  is  “castle 
building”  on  the  panes;  the  streams  are  dumb;  the  woods  stand 
motionless  under  the  weight  of  white  Winter. 

It  is  Saturday — Saturday  afternoon ; the  children  “just  let  loose 
from  school,”  and  Clear  Lake  is  swarming  with  juvenile  skaters. 

Grouped  here  and  there  in  clusters,  like  swarms  of  bees  or  bev- 


TEEASUEES  FEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


77 


ies  of  blackbirds  in  council,  now  and  then,  one  and  another  and  a 
third  dash  out  in  graceful  circles,  with  motion  as  easy  as  flying. 
Huge  sixes  and  sweeping  eights,  and  eagles  with  enormous  length 
of  wings,  are  “cut”  upon  the  “solid  water.” 

Presently  the  whole  cluster  breaks  and  fly  in  every  direction, 
like  a flock  of  pigeons.  There  go  a brace  in  a trial  of  speed;  there, 
a Castor  and  Pollux,  hand  in  hand;  here,  a game  of  goal  is  going 
on,  and  here,  a game  of  “red  lion.” 

Away  there  lies  a little  fellow  upon  his  back,  taking  his  first  les- 
son in  skater’s  astronomy.  Ask  him,  and  he  will  tell  you  he  “saw 
stars”  but  a moment  ago,  that  never  were  named. 

The  sun  is  going  down  in  the  west,  and  they  have  been  upon 
the  ice  since  high  noon.  But  what  is  that  to  them?  What  care 
they  for  cold,  and  fatigue,  and  time?  Saturday  comes  but  once  a 
week,  and  ice  hardly  once  a year.  But  they’ll  find  ice  enough  by 
and  by — ice  in  midsummer — iced  hopes,  iced  friendship,  icy  hearts. 
And  as  for  the  Saturdays,  they’ll  grow  “few  and  far  between” — 
they’ll  not  come  once  a week,  nor  once  a month;  and  happy  will  he 
be  who  has  a Saturday  afternoon  and  evening  to  end  his  life  with. 
Then  who  says  the  boys  sha’n’t  skate?  Who  grudges  them  the 
“rockers?”  Look  at  that  little  fellow  now;  on  one  arm  hang  his 
skates,  a “brand  new”  pair,  glittering  like  a couple  of  scimetars. 
’Tis  his  first  appearance  on  the  skater’s  field.  Down  he  gets  upon 
the  ice ; his  little  red  and  white  mittens,  tethered  with  a string,  lie 
beside  him,  while  with  his  chubby  red  fingers  he  dallies  and  tugs 
with  buckles  and  straps,  every  now  and  then  blowing  his  fingers  to 
keep  them  in  a glow.  All  right  and  tight,  he’s  rigged,  he’s  ready, 
he’s  up  and  off!  What  warrior  ever  harnessed  for  the  field  and  the 
fray  with  a richer  pride  mantling  his  cheek,  or  a brighter  joy  light- 
ing his  eye!  There  may  have  been  one  or  two,  but  there  is  no  rec- 
ord of  them  in  Froissart. 


78 


TREASURES  EROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


Musing  by  the  Fire. 

Musing  here  by  the  sleepy  fire,  this  stormy  night,  about  “one 
thing  and  another,”  the  chime  of  bells,  little  and  big,  comes  sweetly 
to  my  ear  through  the  snowy  air. 

Those  sounds  are  mnemonic — they  are  the  sweet  bells  of  the 
past;  and  in  the  time  of  a single  note,  we  are  back  again  into  the 
vanished  years  in  a winter’s  night,  the  moon  at  the  full,  “some- 
body very  near,”  and  the  merry  bells  ringing  as  they  ring  now. 
How  silvery  were  the  laughs  that  issued  then,  from  beneath  the 
downy  mufflers  and  quilted  hoods.  How  bright  were  the  eyes  that 
glittered  through  green  veils  then,  like  stars  through  a leafy  wood. 
Bells ! There  have  been  knells  since  then,  and  those  who  “make  no 
new  friends,”  must  journey  alone.  You  who  vaunt  upon  life  and 
station  and  the  permanence  of  things  earthly,  return  to  the  scenes 
of  your  youthful  days  of  a winter’s  night.  And  the  “turn-out”— 
let  it  be  as  of  old,  and  call  here  and  there,  where  dwelt  the  com- 
panions of  a brighter  time.  Here  the  stranger,  there  the  estranged, 
and  there,  echo  answers  to  your  impatient  rap. 

The  horses  are  at  the  gate,  eager  to  be  gone,  and  shake  music 
from  those  bells  at  every  toss  of  the  head.  But  it  is  not  music  to 
you,  and  turning  slowly  homeward,  you  pass  in  the  moonlight  a 
field  furrowed  with  many  a drifted  heap.  It  is  “God’s  Field,”  and 
many  who  were  your  companions  on  just  such  a night,  lie  silent 
there.  Aye ! muffle  the  bells  of  memory,  and  pass  on,  a sadder  but 


a wiser  man. 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


79 


The  Old-Fashioned  Mother. 

Old-fashioned  mothers  have  nearly  all  passed  away  with  the 
blue  check  and  homespun  woolen  of  a simpler  but  purer  time. 
Here  and  there  one  remains,  truly  accomplished  in  heart  and  life 
for  the  sphere  of  home. 

Old-fashioned  mothers — God  bless  them! — who  followed  us, 
with  heart  and  prayer,  all  over  the  world — lived  in  our  lives  and 
sorrowed  in  our  griefs ; who  knew  more  about  patching  than  poetry ; 
spoke  no  dialect  but  that  of  love;  never  preached  nor  wandered; 
“made  melody  with  their  hearts;”  and  sent  forth  no  books  but  hving 
volumes,  that  honored  their  authors  and  blessed  the  world. 

If  woman  have  a broader  mission  now,  in  Heaven’s  name  let 
her  fulfill  it ! If  she  have  aught  to  sing,  like  the  daughters  of  Judah 
let  her  sit  down  by  the  waters  of  Babel,  and  the  world  shall  weep; 
like  Miriam  let  her  triumph -strain  float  gloriously  over  crushed  but 
giant  wrong,  and  the  giant  wrong  and  the  world  shall  hear;  but  let 
the  triumph  and  lament  issue,  as  did  the  oracles  of  old,  from  behind 
the  veil  that  cannot  be  rent,  the  “inner  temple”  of  sacred  Home. 

Within  it  should  be  enshrined  the  divinity  of  the  place. 
Here,  and  here  only,  would  we  find  woman;  here  imprison  her — 
imprison  her?  Aye,  as  the  light -house  ray,  that  flows  out,  pure  as 
an  angel’s  pulses,  into  the  night  and  darkness  of  the  world — a star 
beneath  the  cloud ; but  brightest  there — warmest  there — always  there 
where  Heaven  did  kindle  it,  within  the  precinct,  the  very  altar-place 
of  home ! 

It  is  related  of  Madame  Lucciola,  a renowned  vocalist,  that  she 
ruined  a splendid  tenor  voice  by  her  efforts  to  imitate  male  singing. 
Many  a sweet  voice  and  gentle  influence  in  the  social  harmony  has 
been  lost  to  the  world  in  the  same  manner.  There  is  nothing  more 
potent  than  woman’s  voice,  if  heard,  not  in  the  field  or  the  forum, 
but  at  home.  The  song-bird  of  Eastern  story,  borne  from  its  native 


80 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


isle,  grew  dumb  and  languished.  Seldom  did  it  sing,  and  only 
when  it  saw  a dweller  from  its  distant  land,  or  to  its  drowsy  perch 
there  came  a tone  heard  long  ago  in  its  own  woods.  So  with 
the  song  that  woman  sings;  best  heard  within  Home’s  sacred  temple. 
Elsewhere,  a trumpet-tone — perhaps  a clarion-cry,  but  the  lute-like 
voice  has  fled:  the  “mezzo-soprano”  is  lost  in  the  discords  of  earth. 

The  old  homestead!  I wish  I could  paint  it  for  you,  as  it  is— 
no,  no,  I dare  not  say,  as  it  is — as  it  was;  that  we  could  go  together, 
to-night,  from  room  to  room;  sit  by  the  old  hearth  round  which 
that  circle  of  light  and  love  once  swept,  and  there  linger  till  all 
those  simpler,  purer  times  returned,  and  we  should  grow  young 
again. 

And  how  can  we  leave  that  spot  without  remembering  one 
form,  that  occupied,  in  days  gone  by,  the  old  arm-chair, — that  “old- 
fashioned  Mother?” — one,  in  all  the  world,  the  law  of  whose  life 
was  love ; one  who  was  the  divinity  of  our  infancy,  and  the  sacred 
presence  in  the  shrine  of  our  first  earthly  idolatry;  one  whose 
heart  is  far  below  the  frosts  that  gather  so  thickly  on  her  brow; 
one  to  whom  we  never  grow  old,  but  in  “the  plumed  troop”  or 
the  grave  council  are  children  still ; one  who  welcomed  us  coming, 
blest  us  going,  and  never  forgets  us — never. 

And  when,  in  some  closet,  some  drawer,  some  corner,  she  finds 
a garment  or  a toy  that  once  was  yours,  how  does  she  weep  as  she 
thinks  you  may  be  suffering  or  sad.  And  when  Spring 
“Leaves .her  robe  on  the  trees,” 

does  she  not  remember  your  tree,  and  wish  you  were  there  to  see  it 
in  its  glory? 

Nothing  is  '‘far,”  and  nothing  “long,”  to  her ; she  girdles  the 
globe  with  a cincture  of  love;  she  encircles  her  child,  if  he  be  on  the 
face  of  the  earth. 

Think  you,  as  she  sits  in  that  well  remembered  corner  to-night, 
she  dreams  her  trembling  arm  is  less  powerful  to  protect  him  now, 
stalwart  man  though  he  is,  than  when  it  clasped  him,  in  infancy, 
to  her  bosom  ? 

Hoes  the  battle  of  fife  drive  the  wanderer  to  the  old  homestead, 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


81 


at  last?  Her  hand  is  upon  his  shoulder;  her  dim  and  fading  eyes 
are  kindled  with  something  of  “the  light  of  other  days,”  as  she  gazes 
upon  his  brow:  “Be  of  stout  heart,  my  son!  No  harm  can  reach 
thee  here ! ” 

Surely,  there  is  but  one  Heaven — one  Mother — and  one  God. 

But  sometimes  that  arm-chair  is  set  back  against  the  wall,  the 
corner  is  vacant,  or  another’s,  and  they  seek  the  dear  old  occupant 
in  the  graveyard.  God  grant  you  never  have ! Pray  God,  I never 
may! 

There  are  some  there,  though,  whom  we  loved — there  must  be 
to  make  it  easy  dying;  some,  perhaps,  who  were  cradled  on  that 
mother’s  bosom;  some,  perhaps,  who  had  grown  fast  to  our  own. 

The  old  graveyard  in  L ! How  the  cloudy  years  clear 

away  from  before  that  little  acre  in  God’s  fallow  field,  and  the  mem- 
ories return. 


Work. 

There  is  a perennial  nobleness,  and  even  sacredness,  in  work. 
Were  he  never  so  benighted,  forgetful  of  his  high  calling,  there  is 
always  hope  in  a man  that  actually  and  earnestly  works;  in  idle- 
ness alone  is  there  perpetual  despair.  Work,  never  so  mammon- 
ish, mean,  is  in  communication  with  nature;  the  real  desire  to  get 
work  done  will  itself  lead  one  more  and  more  to  truth,  to  Nature’s 
appointments  and  regulations,  which  are  truth. 

The  latest  gospel  in  this  world  is : “Know  thy  work,  and  do  it.  ” 
“Know  thyself:”  long  enough  has  that  poor  “self”  of  thine  tor- 
mented thee;  thou  wilt  never  get  to  “know”  it,  I believe!  Think 
it  not  thy  business,  this  of  knowing  thyself,  thou  art  an  unknow- 
able individual;  know  what  thou  canst  work  at,  and  work  at  it  like 
a Hercules ! That  will  be  thy  better  plan. 

It  has  been  written  “an  endless  significance  lies  in  work,”  as 
man  perfects  himself  by  writing.  Foul  jungles  are  cleared  away, 


82 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


fair  seed-fields  rise  instead,  and  stately  cities ; and  withal  the  man 
himself  first  ceases  to  be  a jungle  and  foul,  unwholesome  desert 
thereby.  Consider  how,  even  in  the  meanest  sorts  of  labor,  the 
whole  soul  of  a man  is  composed  into  a kind  of  real  harmony  the 
instant  he  sets  himself  to  work!  Doubt,  desire,  sorrow,  remorse, 
indignation,  despair  itself,  all  these,  like  hell-dogs,  he  beleaguering 
the  soul  of  the  poor  day-worker,  as  of  every  man,  but  as  he  bends 
himself  with  free  valor  against  his  task,  all  these  are  stilled,  all 
these  shrink  murmuring  afar  off  into  their  caves.  The  man  is  now 
a man.  The  blessed  glow  of  labor  in  him,  is  it  not  a purifying  fire, 
wherein  all  poison  is  burnt  up,  and  of  sour  smoke  itself  there  is 
made  bright,  blessed  flame? 

Destiny,  on  the  whole,  has  no  other  way  of  cultivating  us. 
A formless  chaos,  once  set  it  revolving , grows  round  and  ever 
rounder;  ranges  itself,  by  mere  force  of  gravity,  into  strata,  spher- 
ical courses ; is  no  longer  a chaos,  but  a round,  compacted  world. 
What  would  become  of  the  earth  did  she  cease  to  revolve  ? 
In  the  poor  old  earth,  so  long  as  she  revolves,  all  inequalities, 
irregularities,  disperse  themselves;  all  irregularities  are  incessantly 
becoming  regular.  Hast  thou  looked  on  the  potter’s  wheel,  one  of 
the  venerablest  objects;  old  as  the  prophet  Ezekiel,  and  far  older? 
Bude  lumps  of  clay,  how  they  spin  themselves  up,  by  mere  quick 
whirling,  into  beautiful  circular  dishes.  And  fancy  the  most  assidu- 
ous potter,  but  without  his  wheel,  reduced  to  make  dishes,  or 
rather  amorphous  botches,  by  mere  kneading  and  baking ! Even 
such  a potter  were  destiny  with  a human  soul  that  would  rest  and 
he  at  ease,  that  would  not  work  and  spin!  Of  an  idle,  unrevolving 
man,  the  kindest  destiny,  like  the  most  assiduous  potter  without 
wheel,  can  bake  and  knead  nothing  other  than  a botch;  let  her 
spend  on  him  what  expensive  coloring,  what  gilding  and  enameling 
she  will,  he  is  but  a botch.  Not  a dish;  no,  a bulging,  kneaded, 
crooked,  shambling,  squint-cornered,  amorphous  botch,  a mere 
enameled  vessel  of  dishonor!  Let  the  idle  think  of  this. 

Blessed  is  he  who  has  found  his  work;  let  him  ask  no  other 
blessedness.  He  has  a work,  a life -purpose ; he  has  found  it  and 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


88 


will  follow  it ! How,  as  the  free-flowing  channel,  dug  and  torn  by 
noble  force  through  the  sour  mud-swamp  of  one’s  existence,  like  an 
ever-deepening  river  there,  it  runs  and  flows,  draining  off  the  sour, 
festering  water  gradually  from  the  root  of  the  remotest  grass  blade, 
making,  instead  of  pestilential  swamp,  a green,  fruitful  meadow 
with  its  clear,  flowing  stream.  How  blessed  for  the  meadow  itself, 
let  the  stream  and  its  value  be  great  or  small ! 

Labor  is  life ! From  the  inmost  heart  of  the  worker  rises  his 
God-given  force,  the  sacred,  celestial  life-essence  breathed  into  him 
by  Almighty  God ; from  his  inmost  heart  awakens  him  to  all  noble- 
ness, to  all  knowledge,  “self-knowledge”  and  much  else,  so  soon  as 
work  fitly  begins.  Knowledge ! the  knowledge  that  will  hold  good 
in  working,  cleave  thou  to  that,  for  nature  herself  accredits  that, 
says  Yea  to  that.  Properly  thou  hast  no  other  knowledge  but  what 
thou  hast  got  by  working, — the  rest  is  yet  all  an  hypothesis  of 
knowledge,  a thing  to  be  argued  of  in  schools,  a thing  floating  in 
the  clouds,  in  endless  logic  vortices,  till  we  try  it  and  fix  it. 
“Doubt,  of  whatever  kind,  can  be  ended  by  action  alone.” 

And  again,  hast  thou  valued  patience,  courage,  perseverance, 
openness  to  light,  readiness  to  own  thyself  mistaken,  to  do  better 
next  time?  All  these,  all  virtues  in  wrestling  with  the  dim  brute 
powers  of  fact,  in  ordering  of  thy  fellows  in  such  wrestle,  there, 
and  elsewhere  not  at  all,  thou  wilt  continually  learn.  Set  down  a 
brave  Sir  Christopher  in  the  middle  of  black,  ruined  stone-heaps 
of  foolish  unarchitectural  bishops,  red-tape  officials,  idle  Nell  Gwyn 
defenders  of  the  faith,  and  see  whether  he  will  ever  raise  a Paul’s 
Cathedral  out  of  all  that,  yea  or  no!  Rough,  rude,  contradictory 
are  all  things  and  persons,  from  the  mutinous  masons  and  Irish 
hod-men,  up  to  the  idle  Nell  Gwyn  defenders,  to  blustering  red-tape 
officials,  foolish  unarchitectural  bishops.  All  these  things  and  per- 
sons are  there,  not  for  Christopher’s  sake  and  his  cathedrals;  they 
are  there  for  their  own  sake,  mainly ! Christopher  will  have  to 
conquer  and  constrain  all  these,  if  he  be  able.  All  these  are  against 
him. 

Equitable  nature  herself,  who  carries  her  mathematics  and 


84 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


architectonics  not  on  the  face  of  her,  but  deep  in  the  hidden  heart 
of  her — nature  herself  is  but  partially  for  him, — will  be  wholly 
against  him,  if  he  constrain  her  not ! His  very  money,  where  is 
it  to  come  from?  The  pious  munificence  of  England  lies  far  scat- 
tered, distant,  unable  to  speak  and  say,  “I  am  here;”  must  be 
spoken  to  before  it  can  speak.  Pious  munificence,  and  all  help,  is 
so  silent,  invisible  like  the  gods ; impediment,  contradictions  mani- 
fold are  so  loud  and  near!  0 brave  Sir  Christopher,  trust  thou  in 
those  notwithstanding,  and  front  all  these;  understand  all  these; 
by  valiant  patience,  noble  effort,  insight,  vanquish  and  compel  all 
these,  and,  on  the  whole,  strike  down  victoriously  the  last  top -stone 
of  that  Paul’s  edifice,  thy  monument  for  certain  centuries,  the 
stamp  “Great  Man”  impressed  very  legibly  in  Portland  stone 
there ! 

Yes,  all  manner  of  work,  and  pious  response  from  men  or 
nature,  is  always  what  we  call  silent, — cannot  speak  or  come  to 
light  till  it  be  seen,  till  it  be  spoken  to.  Every  noble  work  is  at 
first  “impossible.”  In  very  truth,  for  every  noble  work  the  possi- 
bilities will  lie  diffused  through  immensity,  inarticulate,  undiscover- 
able  except  to  faith.  Like  Gideon,  thou  shalt  spread  out  thy  fleece 
at  the  door  of  thy  tent ; See  whether  under  the  wide  arch  of  heaven 
there  be  any  bounteous  moisture,  or  none.  Thy  heart  and  life- 
purpose  shall  be  a miraculous  Gideon’s  fleece  spread  out  in  silent 
appeal  to  heaven ; and  from  the  kind  immensities,  what  from  the 
poor  unkind  localities  and  town  and  country  parishes  there  never 
could,  blessed  dew-moisture  to  suffice  thee  shall  have  fallen ! 

Work  is  of  a religious  nature:  work  is  of  a brave  nature,  which 
it  is  the  aim  of  all  religion  to  be.  “All  work  of  man’s  is  as  the 
swimmer’s,”  a waste  ocean  threatens  to  devour  him;  if  he  front  it 
not  bravely  it  will  keep  its  word.  By  incessant,  wise  defiance  of 
it,  lusty  rebuke  and  buffet  of  it,  behold  how  it  loyally  supports  him, 
bears  him  as  its  conqueror  along.  “It  is  so,”  says  Goethe,  “with 
all  things  that  man  undertakes  in  this  world.” 

Brave  sea-captain,  Norse  sea-king,  Columbus,  my  hero,  royalist 
sea-king  of  all!  it  is  no  friendly  environment  this  of  thine  in  the 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


85 


waste  deep  waters;  around  thee  mutinous, discouraged  souls,  behind 
thee  disgrace  and  ruin,  before  thee  unpenetrated  veil  of  night. 
Brother,  these  wild  water- mountains,  bounding  from  their  deep 
bases — ten  miles  deep,  I am  told, — are  not  entirely  there  on  thy 
behalf ! Meseems  they  have  other  work  than  floating  thee  forward ; 
and  the  huge  winds  that  sweep  from  Ursa  Major  of  the  tropics  and 
equator,  dancing  their  giant  waltz  through  the  kingdoms  of  chaos 
and  immensity,  they  care  little  about  filling  rightly  or  filling 
wrongly  the  small  shoulder-of-mutton  sails  in  this  cockle  skiff  of 
thine!  Thou  art  not  among  articulate  speaking  friends,  my 
brother;  thou  art  among  immeasurable  dumb  monsters,  tumbling, 
howling  wide  as  the  world  here.  Secret,  far-off,  invisible  to  all 
hearts  but  thine,  there  lies  a help  in  them.  See  how  thou  wilt  get 
at  that.  Patiently  thou  wilt  wait  until  the  mad  southwester  spend 
itself,  saving  thyself  by  dexterous  science  of  defence  the  while; 
valiantly,  with  swift  decision,  wilt  thou  strike  in  when  the  favoring 
east,  the  possible,  springs  up.  Mutiny  of  men  thou  wilt  sternly 
repress ; weakness,  despondency,  thou  wilt  cheerily  encourage ; thou 
wilt  swallow  down  complaint,  unreason,  weariness,  weakness  of 
others  and  thyself — how  much  wilt  thou  swallow  down!  There 
shall  be  a depth  of  silence  in  thee  deeper  than  this  sea  which  is 
but  ten  miles  deep ; a silence  unsoundable,  known  to  God  only. 
Thou  shalt  be  a great  man.  Yes,  my  world- soldier,  thou  of  the 
world  marine -service,  thou  wilt  have  to  be  greater  than  this  tumult- 
uous, unmeasured  world  here  around  thee  is;  thou  in  thy  strong 
soul,  as  with  wrestler’s  arms,  shalt  embrace  it,  harness  it  down, 
and  make  it  bear  thee  on  to  new  Americas,  or  whither  God  wills ! 
* * * * ****** 
Religion,  I said,  for,  properly  speaking,  all  true  work  is  religion ; 
and  whatsoever  religion  is  not  work  may  go  and  dwell  among  the 
Brahmins,  Antinomians,  spinning  dervishes,  or  where  it  will;  with 
me  it  shall  have  no  harbor.  Admirable  was  that  of  the  old  monks  * 
laborare  est  orare , “work  is  worship.” 

Older  than  all  preached  gospels  was  this  unpreached,  inarticu- 
late, but  ineradicable,  forever-enduring  gospel:  Work,  and  therein 


86 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


have  well-being.  Man,  son  of  earth  and  of  heaven,  lies  there  not,  in 
the  innermost  heart  of  thee,  a spirit  of  active  method,  a force  for 
work;— and  burn  like  a painfully  smoldering  fire,  giving  thee  no 
rest  till  thou  unfold  it,  till  thou  write  it  down  in  beneficent  facts 
around  thee!  What  is  immethodic,  waste,  thou  shalt  make 
methodic,  regulated,  arable;  obedient  and  productive  to  thee. 
Wheresoever  thou  findest  disorder,  there  is  thy  eternal  enemy; 
attack  him- swiftly,  subdue  him;  make  order  of  him,  the  subject, 
not  of  chaos,  but  of  intelligence,  divinity  and  thee!  The  thistle 
that  grows  in  thy  path,  dig  it  out  that  a blade  of  useful  grass,  a 
drop  of  nourishing  milk  may  grow  there  instead.  The  waste 
cotton-shrub,  gather  its  waste  white  down,  spin  it,  weave  it,  that  in 
place  of  idle  litter  there  may  be  folded  webs,  and  the  naked  skin  of 
man  be  covered. 

But  above  all,  where  thou  findest  ignorance,  stupidity,  brute- 
mindedness, attack  it,  I say;  smite  it  wisely,  unweariedly,  and 
rest  not  while  thou  livest  and  it  lives,  but  smite,  smite  in  the  name 
of  God!  The  Highest  God,  as  I understand  it,  does  audibly  so 
command  thee — still  audibly,  if  thou  have  ears  to  hear.  He,  even 
He,  with  His  unspoken  voice,  fuller  than  any  Sinai  thunders  or 
syllabled  speech  of  whirlwinds — for  the  silence  of  deep  eternities,  of 
worlds  from  beyond  the  morning- stars,  does  it  not  speak  to  thee? 
The  unborn  ages;  the  old  graves,  with  their  long-moldering  dust, 
the  very  tears  that  wetted  it,  now  all  dry — do  not  these  speak  to 
thee  what  ear  hath  not  heard?  The  deep  death — kingdoms,  the 
stars  in  their  never- resting  courses,  all  space  and  all  time  pro- 
claim it  to  thee  in  continual  silent  admonition.  Thou,  too,  if  ever 
man  should,  shalt  work  while  it  is  called  to-day.  For  the  night 
cometh  wherein  no  man  can  work. 

All  true  work  is  sacred.  In  all  true  work,  were  it  but  true 
hand-labor,  there  is  something  of  divineness.  Labor,  wide  as  the 
earth,  has  its  summit  in  heaven.  Sweat  of  the  brow;  and  up  from 
that  to  sweat  of  the  brain,  sweat  of  the  heart — which  includes  all 
Kepler  calculations,  Newton  meditations,  all  sciences,  all  spoken 
epics,  all  acted  heroisms,  martyrdoms, — up  to  that  “agony  of 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


87 


bloody  sweat”  which  all  men  have  called  divine!  0 brother,  if 
this  is  not  “worship,”  then  I say,  the  more  pity  for  worship;  for 
this  is  the  noblest  thing  yet  discovered  under  God’s  sky.  Who 
art  thou  that  complainest  of  thy  life  of  toil?  Complain  not.  Look 
up,  my  wearied  brother;  see  thy  fellow-workmen  there  in  God’s 
eternity;  surviving  there,  they  alone  surviving;  sacred  band  of  the 
immortals,  celestial  body-guard  of  the  empire  of  mankind.  Even 
in  the  weak  human  memory  they  survive  so  long,  as  saints,  as 
heroes,  as  gods;  they  alone  surviving;  peopling,  they  alone,  the 
unmeasured  solitudes  of  time!  To  thee  heaven,  though  severe, 
is  not  unkind.  Heaven  is  kind  as  a noble  mother,  as  that  Spartan 
mother,  saying  while  she  gave  her  son  his  shield,  “With  it,  my 
son,  or  upon  it!”  Thou,  too,  shalt  return  home  in  honor,  to  thy 
far- distant  home  in  honor,  doubt  it  not,  if  in  the  battle  thou  keep 
thy  shield ! Thou,  in  the  eternities  and  deepest  death  kingdoms, 
art  not  an  alien;  thou  everywhere  art  a denizen!  Complain  not; 
the  very  Spartans  did  not  complain. 


88 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  was  born  in 
Portland,  Me.,  February  27,  1807,  and  he  died  at  his 
home  in  Cambridge,  Mass.,  March  24,  1882,  at  the  age  of 
seventy-five.  For  some  time  before  his  death  his  home  was 
in  the  building  formerly  occupied  by  Gen.  Washington  as 
his  headquarters. 

Longfellow  studied  at  Bowdoin  College,  Brunswick,  and 
after  three  years’  travel  and  study  in  Europe,  became  Pro- 
fessor of  Modern  Languages  in  his  native  college.  In  1835, 
he  accepted  the  Chair  of  Modern  Languages  and  Literature 
in  Harvard  University. 

The  poet’s  youth  was  noted  for  industry  and  close  ap- 
plication to  study,  While  at  college,  he  became  somewhat 
noted  for  his  poems  and  criticisms  contributed  to  periodicals. 
Longfellow’s  literary  record  is  along  one.  In  1833,  he  pub- 
lished translations  of  Spanish  verses  called  Coplas  de  Man- 
rique,  and  an  essay  on  Spanish  poetry;  1835,  Sketches  from 
Beyond  the  Sea;  1839,  Hyperion,  a Romance,  and  also  col- 
lections of  poems,  entitled  Voices  of  the  Night ; 1842,  Poems 
on  Slavery ; 1843,  The  Spanish  Student,  a tragedy  ; 1845, 
Poets  and  Poetry  of  Europe;  1846,  The  Belfry  of  Bruges ; 
1847,  Evangeline ; 1849,  Kavanaugh,  and  The  Seaside  and 
Fireside;  1851,  The  Golden  Legend;  1855,  Song  of  Hia- 
watha; 1858,  Miles  Standish  ; 1863,  Tales  of  a Wayside  Inn. 

He  has  also  published  Three  Books  of  Song,  a divine 
tragedy;  and  translations.  Thus  we  see  that  Longfellow 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW, 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


89 


was  a great  literary  worker.  Whipple  says  that  Longfellow 
idealizes  real  life,  embodies  high  moral  sentiment  in  beauti- 
ful and  ennobling  forms,  and  inweaves  the  golden  threads 
of  spiritual  being  into  the  texture  of  common  existence.  He 
is  the  most  popular  of  American  poets,  and  his  works  are 
admired  throughout  the  literary  world.  In  speaking  of  his 
death,  under  date  of  March  24,  1882,  the  London  Times 
says : “ News  of  Longfellow’s  death  will  be  read  with  deep 
regret  wherever  the  English  language  is  spoken.  The  death 
of  no  literary  Englishman  could  excite  more  general  sorrow 
than  that  of  the  much-loved  author  of  Evangeline.  He  will 
be  no  more  sincerely  lamented  in  America  than  in  this 
country.  ” 

The  News,  Standard  and  Telegraph  all  speak  in  equally 
graceful  terms  of  Longfellow. 

“All  the  many  sounds  of  nature 
Borrowed  sweetness  from  his  singing; 

All  the  hearts  of  men  were  softened 
By  the  pathos  of  his  music ; 

For  he  sang  of  peace  and  freedom, 

Sang  of  beauty,  love,  and  longing ; 

Sang  of  death,  a life  undying 
In  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed.” 


90 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORE1). 


Rural  Life  in  Sweden, 

There  is  something  patriarchal  still  lingering  about  rural  life 
In  Sweden,  which  renders  it  a fit  theme  for  song.  Almost  primeval 
simplicity  reigns  over  that  northern  land — almost  primeval  solitude 
and  stillness.  You  pass  out  from  the  gate  of  the  city,  and,  as  if  by 
magic,  the  scene  changes  to  a wild  woodland  landscape.  Around 
you  are  forests  of  fir.  Overhead  hang  the  long,  fan-like  branches, 
trailing  with  moss  and  heavy  with  red  and  blue  cones.  Under 
foot  is  a carpet  of  yellow  leaves,  and  the  air  is  warm  and  balmy. 
On  a wooden  bridge  you  cross  a little  silver  stream ; and  anon  come 
forth  into  a pleasant  and  sunny  land  of  farms.  Wooden  fences 
divide  the  adjoining  fields.  Across  the  road  are  gates,  which  are 
opened  by  troops  of  children.  The  peasants  take  off  their  hats  as 
you  pass;  you  sneeze,  and  they  cry,  “God  bless  you!”  The  houses 
in  the  villages  and  smaller  towns  are  all  built  of  hewn  timber,  and  for 
the  most  part  painted  red.  The  floors  of  the  taverns  are  strewed  with 
the  fragrant  tips  of  fir  boughs.  In  many  villages  there  are  no  tav- 
erns, and  the  peasants  take  turns  in  receiving  travelers.  The  thrifty 
housewife  shows  you  into  the  best  chamber,  the  walls  of  1,  nich  are 
hung  round  with  rude  pictures  from  the  Bible ; and  brings  you  her 
heavy  silver  spoons — an  heirloom — to  dip  the  curdled  milk  from  the 
pan.  You  have  oaten  cakes  baked  some  months  before,  or  bread 
with  anise-seed  and  coriander  in  it,  or  perhaps  a little  pine  bark. 
Meanwhile  the  sturdy  husband  has  brought  his  horses  from  the 
plow,  and  harnessed  them  to  your  carriage.  Solitary  travelers 
come  and  go  in  uncouth  one-horse  chaises.  Most  of  them  have 
pipes  in  their  mouths,  and  hanging  around  their  necks  in  front,  a 
leather  wallet,  in  which  they  carry  tobacco,  and  the  great  bank  notes 
of  the  country,  as  large  as  your  two  hands.  You  meet  also  groups 
of  Dalekarlian  peasant  women,  traveling  homeward  or  townward  in 
pursuit  of  work.  They  walk  barefoot,  carrying  in  their  hands 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


91 


their  shoes,  which  have  high  heels  under  the  hollow  of  the  foot,  and 
soles  of  birch  hark. 

Frequent,  too,  are  the  village  churches  standing  by  the  road- 
sides, each  in  its  own  little  garden  of  Gethsemane.  In  the  parish 
register  great  events  are  doubtless  recorded.  Some  old  king  was 
christened  or  buried  in  that  church;  and  a little  sexton,  with  a rusty 
key,  shows  you  the  baptismal  font  or  the  coffin.  In  the  church- 
yard are  a few  flowers  and  much  green  grass ; and  daily  the  shadow 
of  the  church  spire  with  its  long,  tapering  finger,  counts  the  tombs, 
representing  a dial-plate  of  human  life  on  which  the  hours  and  min- 
utes are  the  graves  of  men.  The  stones  are  flat,  and  large,  and  low, 
and  perhaps  sunken,  like  the  roofs  of  old  houses.  On  some  are 
armorial  bearings ; on  others  only  the  initials  of  the  poor  tenants, 
with  a date,  as  on  the  roofs  of  Dutch  cottages.  They  all  sleep 
with  their  heads  to  the  westward.  Each  held  a lighted  taper  in  his 
hand  when  he  died,  and  in  his  coffin  were  placed  his  little  heart- 
treasures,  and  a piece  of  money  for  his  last  journey.  Babes  that 
came  lifeless  into  the  world  were  carried  in  the  arms  of  gray-haired 
old  men  to  the  only  cradle  they  ever  slept  in ; and  in  the  shroud  of 
the  dead  mother  were  laid  the  little  garments  of  the  child  that  lived 
and  died  in  her  bosom.  And  over  this  scene  the  village  pastor  looks 
from  his  window  in  the  stillness  of  midnight,  and  says  in  his  heart, 
“ How  quietly  they  rest,  all  the  departed!” 

Near  the  churchyard  gate  stands  a poor-box,  fastened  to  a post 
by  iron  bands,  and  secured  by  a padlock,  with  a sloping  wooden 
roof  to  keep  off  the  rain.  If  it  be  Sunday,  the  peasants  sit  on  the 
church  steps  and  con  their  psalm-books.  Others  are  coming  down 
the  road  with  their  beloved  pastor,  who  talks  to  them  of  holy  things 
from  beneath  his  broad-brimmed  hat.  He  speaks  of  fields  and  har- 
vests, and  of  the  parable  of  the  sower,  that  went  forth  to  sow.  He 
leads  them  to  the  Good  Shepherd,  and  to  the  pleasant  pastures  of 
the  Spirit-land.’  He  is  their  patriarch,  and,  like  Melchizedek,  both 
priest  and  king,  though  he  has  no  other  throne  than  the  church 
pulpit.  The  women  carry  psalm-books  in  their  hands,  wrapped  in 
silk  handkerchiefs,  and  listen  devoutly  to  the  good  man’s  words; 


92 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


but  the  young  men,  like  Galileo,  care  for  none  of  these  things.  They 
are  busy  counting  the  plaits  in  the  kirtles  of  the  peasant  girls,  their 
number  being  an  indication  of  the  wearer’s  wealth.  It  may  end  in 
a wedding. 

I will  endeavor  to  describe  a village  wedding  in  Sweden.  It 
shall  be  in  Summer  time,  that  there  may  be  flowers,  and  in  a south- 
ern province,  that  the  bride  may  be  fair.  The  early  song  of  the 
lark  and  of  chanticleer  are  mingling  in  the  clear  morning  air,  and 
the  sun,  the  heavenly  bridegroom  with  golden  locks,  arises  in  the 
east,  just  as  our  earthly  bridegroom,  with  yellow  hair,  arises  in  the 
south.  In  the  yard  there  is  a sound  of  voices  and  trampling  of 
hoofs,  and  horses  are  led  forth  and  saddled.  The  steed  that  is  to 
bear  the  bridegroom  has  a bunch  of  flowers  upon  his  forehead,  and 
a garland  of  corn  flowers  around  his  neck.  Friends  from  the  neigh- 
boring farms  come  riding  in,  their  blue  cloaks  streaming  to  the  wind; 
and  finally  the  happy  bridegroom,  with  a whip  in  his  hand,  and  a 
monstrous  nosegay  in  the  breast  of  his  black  jacket,  comes  forth 
from  his  chamber ; and  then  to  horse  and  away  toward  the  village., 
where  the  bride  already  sits  and  waits. 

Foremost  rides  the  spokesman,  followed  by  some  half-dozen 
village  musicians.  Next  comes  the  bridegroom  between  his  two 
groomsmen;  and  then  forty  or  fifty  friends  and  wedding  guests, 
half  of  them  perhaps  with  pistols  and  guns  in  their  hands.  A kind 
of  baggage  wagon  brings  up  the  rear,  laden  with  food  and  drink  for 
these  merry  pilgrims.  At  the  entrance  of  every  village  stands  a 
triumphal  arch,  adorned  with  flowers,  and  ribands,  and  evergreens; 
and,  as  they  pass  beneath  it,  the  wedding  guests  fire  a salute,  and 
the  whole  procession  stops ; and  straight  from  every  pocket  flies  a 
black-jack,  filled  with  punch  or  brandy.  It  is  passed  from  hand  to 
hand  among  the  crowd;  provisions  are  brought  from  the  wagon, 
and,  after  eating  and  drinking  and  hurrahing,  the  procession  moves 
forward  again,  and  at  length  draws  near  the  house  of  the  bride. 
Four  heralds  ride  forward  to  announce  that  a knight  and  his  attend- 
ants are  in  the  neighboring  forest,  and  pray  for  hospitality.  “ How 
many  are  you?”  asks  the  bride’s  father.  “At  least  three  hundred,” 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


98 


is  the  answer;  and  to  this  the  last  replies,  “Yes,  were  you  seven 
times  as  many,  you  should  all  be  welcome ; and  in  token  thereof 
receive  this  cup.”  Whereupon  each  herald  receives  a can  of  ale; 
and  soon  after  the  whole  jovial  company  comes  storming  into  the 
farmer’s  yard,  and,  riding  around  the  Maypole,  which  stands  in  the 
center,  alight  amid  a grand  salute  and  flourish  of  music.  In  the 
hall  sits  the  bride,  with  a crown  upon  her  head  and  a tear  in 

her  eye,  like  the  Virgin  Mary  in  old  church  paintings.  She  is 

dressed  in  a red  bodice  and  kirtle,  with  loose  linen  sleeves.  There 
is  a gilded  belt  around  her  waist,  and  around  her  neck  strings  of 
golden  beads,  and  a golden  chain.  On  the  crown  rests  a wreath  of 
wild  roses,  and  below  it  another  of  cypress.  Loose  over  her  shoul- 
ders falls  her  flaxen  hair,  and  her  blue  innocent  eyes  are  fixed  upon 
the  ground.  0 thou  good  soul ! thou  hast  hard  hands,  but  a soft 
heart.  Thou  art  poor.  The  very  ornaments  thou  wearest  are  not 
thine.  They  have  been  hired  for  this  great  day.  Yet  thou  art 

rich,  rich  in  health,  rich  in  hope,  rich  in  thy  first,  young,  fervent 

love.  The  blessing  of  Heaven  be  upon  thee ! So  thinks  the  parish 
priest  as  he  joins  together  the  hands  of  bride  and  bridegroom,  say- 
ing in  deep,  solemn  tones,  “ I give  thee  in  marriage  this  damsel,  to 
be  thy  wedded  wife  in  all  honor,  and  to  share  the  half  of  thy  bed, 
thy  lock  and  key,  and  every  third  penny  which  you  two  may  pos- 
sefss,  or  may  inherit,  and  all  the  rights  which  upland’s  laws  provide, 
and  the  holy  King  Erik  gave.” 

The  dinner  is  now  served,  and  the  bride  sits  between  the  bride- 
groom and  the  priest.  The  spokesman  delivers  an  oration  after  the 
ancient  custom  of  his  fathers.  He  interlards  it  well  with  quotations 
from  the  Bible,  and  invites  the  Savior  to  be  present  at  this  marriage 
feast,  as  he  was  at  the  marriage  feast  of  Cana  of  Galilee.  The  ta- 
ble is  not  sparingly  set  forth.  Each  makes  a long  arm,  and  the 
feast  goes  cheerily  on.  Punch  and  brandy  pass  round  between  the 
courses,  and  here  and  there  a pipe  is  smoked  while  waiting  for  the 
next  dish.  They  sit  long  at  table;  but,  as  all  things  must  have  an 
end,  so  must  a Swedish  dinner.  Then  the  dance  begins.  It  is  led 
off  by  the  bride  and  the  priest,  . perform  a solemn  minuet 


94 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


together.  Not  till  after  midnight  comes  the  last  dance.  The  girls 
form  a ring  around  the  bride,  to  keep  her  from  the  hands  of  the  mar- 
ried women,  who  endeavor  to  break  through  the  magic  circle,  and 
seize  their  new  sister.  After  long  struggling  they  succeed ; and  the 
crown  is  taken  from  her  head  and  the  jewels  from  her  neck,  and 
her  bodice  is  unlaced,  and  her  kirtle  taken  off,  and,  like  a vestal 
virgin,  clad  all  in  white,  she  goes, — but  it  is  to  her  marriage 
chamber,  not  to  her  grave;  and  the  wedding  guests  follow  her  with 
lighted  candles  in  their  hands.  And  this  is  a village  bridal. 

Nor  must  I forget  the  suddenly  changing  seasons  of  the  north- 
ern clime.  There  is  no  long  and  lingering  Spring,  unfolding  leaf 
and  blossom  one  by  one;  no  long  and  lingering  Autumn,  pompous 
with  many  colored  leaves  and  the  glow  of  Indian  Summers.  But 
Winter  and  Summer  are  wonderful,  and  pass  into  each  other.  The 
quail  has  hardly  ceased  piping  in  the  corn,  when  Winter,  from  the 
folds  of  trailing  clouds,  sows  broadcast  over  the  land  snow,  icicles, 
and  rattling  hail.  The  days  wane  apace.  Ere  long  the  sun  hardly 
rises  above  the  horizon,  or  does  not  rise  at  all.  The  moon  and  the 
stars  shine  through  the  day;  only,  at  noon,  they  are  pale  and  wan, 
and  in  the  southern  sky  a red,  fiery  glow,  as  of  sunset,  burns  along 
the  horizon,  and  then  goes  out.  And  pleasantly  under  the  silver 
moon,  and  under  the  silent,  solemn  stars,  ring  the  steel  shoes  of  the 
skaters  on  the  frozen  sea,  and  voices,  and  the  sound  of  bells. 

And  now  the  northern  lights  begin  to  burn,  faintly  at  first,  like 
sunbeams  playing  on  the  waters  of  the  blue  sea.  Then  a soft  crim- 
son glow  tinges  the  heavens.  There  is  a blush  on  the  cheek  of 
night.  The  colors  come  and  go,  and  change  from  crimson  to  g’old, 
from  gold  to  crimson.  The  snow  is  stained  with  rosy  light.  Two- 
fold from  the  zenith,  east  and  west,  flames  a fiery  sword;  and  a 
broad  band  passes  athwart  the  heavens  like  a Summer  sunset.  Soft 
purple  clouds  come  sailing  over  the  sky,  and  through  their  vapory 
folds  the  winking  stars  shine  white  as  silver.  With  such  pomp  as 
this  is  merry  Christmas  ushered  in — though  only  a single  star  her- 
alded the  first  Christmas.  And  in  memory  of  that  day  the  Swedish 
peasants  dance  on  straw,  ’ peasant  girls  throw  straws  at  the 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


96 


timbered  roof  of  the  hall,  and  for  every  one  that  sticks  in  a crack  shall 
a groomsman  come  to  their  wedding.  Merry  Christmas,  indeed ! 
For  pious  souls  there  shall  be  church  songs  and  sermons,  but  for 
Swedish  peasants  brandy  and  nut-brown  ale  in  wooden  bowls;  and 
the  great  Yule-cake,  crowned  with  a cheese,  and  garlanded  with  ap- 
ples, and  upholding  a three-armed  candle-stick  over  the  Christmas 
feast.  They  may  tell  tales,  too,  of  Jons  Lundsbracka,  and  Lun- 
kenfus,  and  the  great  Biddar-Finke  of  Pingsdaga. 

And  now  the  glad,  leafy  Midsummer,  full  of  blossoms  and  the 
song  of  nightingales,  is  come ! Saint  John  has  taken  the  flowers 
and  festival  of  heathen  Balder;  and  in  every  village  there  is  a May- 
pole  fifty  feet  high,  with  wreaths  and  roses,  and  ribands  streaming 
in  the  wind,  and  a noisy  weathercock  on  the  top  to  tell  the  village 
whence  the  wind  cometh  and  whither  it  goeth.  The  sun  does  not 
set  till  10  o’clock  at  night,  and  the  children  are  at  play  in  the  streets 
an  hour  later.  The  windows  and  doors  are  all  open,  and  you  may 
sit  and  read  till  midnight  without  a candle.  Oh,  how  beautiful  is 
the  Summer  night,  which  is  not  night,  but  a sunless  yet  unclouded 
day,  descending  upon  earth  with  dews  and  shadows,  and  refreshing 
coolness!  How  beautiful  the  long,  mild  twilight,  which,  like  a sil- 
ver clasp,  unites  to-day  with  yesterday!  How  beautiful  the  silent 
hour,  when  morning  and  evening  thus  sit  together,  hand  in  hand, 
beneath  the  starless  sky  of  midnight ! From  the  church  tower  in 
the  public  square  the  bell  tolls  the  hour  with  a soft,  musical  chime, 
and  the  watchman,  whose  watch-tower  is  the  belfry,  blows  a blast 
on  his  horn  for  each  stroke  of  the  hammer,  and  four  times  to  the 
four  comers  of  the  heavens,  in  a sonorous  voice  he  chants : 

“Ho!  watchman,  ho! 

Twelve  is  the  clock! 

God  keep  our  town 
From  fire  and  brand, 

And  hostile  hand ! 

Twelve  is  the  clock!” 

From  his  swallow’s  nest  in  the  belfry  he  can  see  the  sun  all 
night  long ; and  farther  north  the  priest  stands  at  his  door  in  the 
warm  midnight  and  lights  his  pipe  with  a common  burning-glass. 


% 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


Scene  at  the  Natural  Bridge. 

The  scene  opens  with  a view  of  the  great  Natural  Bridge  in 
Virginia.  There  are  three  or  four  lads  standing  in  the  channel 
below,  looking  up  with  awe  to  that  vast  arch  of  unhewn  rocks, 
which  the  Almighty  bridged  over  those  everlasting  butments,  “when 
the  morning  stars  sung  together.  ” The  little  piece  of  sky  spanning 
those  measureless  piers  is  full  of  stars,  although  it  is  mid-day. 

It  is  almost  five  hundred  feet  from  where  they  stand,  up  those 
perpendicular  bulwarks  of  limestone,  to  the  key-rock  of  that  vast 
arch,  which  appears  to  them  only  the  size  of  a man’s  hand.  The 
silence  of  death  is  rendered  more  impressive  by  the  little  stream 
that  falls  from  rock  to  rock  down  the  channel.  The  sun  is  dark* 
ened,  and  the  boys  have  unconsciously  uncovered  their  heads,  as  if 
standing  in  the  presence-chamber  of  the  Majesty  of  the  whole 
earth. 

At  last  this  feeling  begins  to  wear  away;  they  begin  to  look 
around  them ; they  find  that  others  have  been  there  before  them. 
They  see  the  names  of  hundreds  cut  in  the  limestone  butments. 
A new  feeling  comes  over  their  young  hearts,  and  their  knives  are 
in  their  hands  in  an  instant.  “What  man  has  done,  man  can  do,” 
is  their  watchword,  while  they  draw  themselves  up  and  carve  their 
names  a foot  above  those  of  a hundred  full-grown  men  who  have 
been  there  before  them. 

They  are  all  satisfied  with  this  feat  of  physical  exertion, 
except  one,  whose  example  illustrates  perfectly  the  forgotten  truth, 
that  there  is  no  royal  road  to  intellectual  eminence.  This  ambi- 
tious youth  sees  a name  just  above  his  reach — a name  that  will  be 
green  in  the  memory  of  the  world,  when  those  of  Alexander,  Caesar, 
and  Bonaparte  shall  be  lost  in  oblivion.  It  was  the  name  of 
Washington. 

Before  he  marched  with  Braddock  to  that  fatal  field,  he  had 
been  there,  and  left  his  name  a foot  above  all  his  predecessors.  It 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


97 


was  a glorious  thought  for  a boy  to  write  his  name  side  by  side 
with  that  of  the  great  father  of  his  country.  He  grasped  his  knife 
with  a firmer  hand,  and  clinging  to  a little  jutting  crag,  he  cuts  a 
gain  into  the  limestone,  about  a foot  above  where  he  stands;  he  then 
reaches  up  and  cuts  another  for  his  hands. 

’Tis  a dangerous  adventure;  but  as  he  puts  his  feet  and  hands 
into  those  gains,  and  draws  himself  up  carefully  to  his  full  length, 
he  finds  himself  a foot  above  every  name  chronicled  in  that  mighty 
wall.  While  his  companions  are  regarding  him  with  concern  and 
admiration,  he  cuts  his  name  in  rude  capitals,  large  and  deep  into 
that  flinty  album. 

His  knife  is  still  in  his  hand,  and  strength  in  his  sinews,  and 
a new  created  aspiration  in  his  heart.  Again  he  cuts  another  niche, 
and  again  he  carves  his  name  in  larger  capitals.  This  is  not  enough. 
Heedless  of  the  entreaties  of  his  companions,  he  cuts  and  climbs 
again.  The  gradations  of  his  ascending  scale  grow  wider  apart. 
He  measures  his  length  at  every  gain  he  cuts.  The  voices  of  his 
friends  wax  weaker  and  weaker,  till  their  words  are  finally  lost  on 
his  ear. 

He  now,  for  the  first  time,  cast  a look  beneath  him.  Had  that 
glance  lasted  a moment,  that  moment  would  have  been  his  last. 
He  clings  with  a convulsive  shudder  to  his  little  niche  in  the  rock. 
He  is  faint  from  severe  exertion,  and  trembling  from  the  sudden 
view  of  the  dreadful  destruction  to  which  he  is  exposed.  His  knife 
is  worn  half  way  to  the  haft.  He  can  hear  the  voices,  but  not  the 
words,  of  his  terror-stricken  companions  below ! What  a moment ! 
What  a meager  chance  to  escape  destruction ! There  is  no  retracing 
his  steps.  It  is  impossible  to  put  his  hand  into  the  same  niche 
with  his  feet,  and  retain  his  slender  hold  a moment. 

His  companions  instantly  perceive  this  new  and  fearful  di- 
lemma, and  await  his  fall  with  emotions  that  “freeze  their  young 
blood.”  He  is  too  high,  too  faint,  to  ask  for  his  father  and  mother, 
and  brothers  and  sisters,  to  come  and  witness  or  avert  his  destruc- 
tion. But  one  of  his  companions  anticipates  his  desire.  Swift  as 
- 7 


98 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


the  wind,  he  bounds  down  the  channel,  and  the  situation  of  the 
ill-fated  boy  is  told  upon  his  father’s  hearthstone. 

Minutes  of  almost  eternal  length  roll  on,  and  there  are  hundreds 
standing  in  that  rocky  channel,  and  hundreds  on  the  bridge  above, 
all  holding  their  breath,  and  awaiting  the  fearful  catastrophe.  The 
poor  boy  hears  the  hum  of  new  and  numerous  voices  both  above 
and  below.  He  can  distinguish  the  tones  of  his  father,  who  is 
shouting,  with  all  the  energy  of  despair,  “William!  William!  don’t 
look  down!  Your  mother,  and  Henry,  and  Harriet,  are  all  here, 
praying  for  you ! Don’t  look  down!  Keep  your  eye  towards  the 
top!” 

The  boy  didn’t  look  down.  His  eye  is  fixed  like  a flint  towards 
heaven,  and  his  young  heart  on  Him  who  reigns  there.  He  grasps 
again  his  knife.  He  cuts  another  niche,  and  another  foot  is  added 
to  the  hundreds  that  remove  him  from  the  reach  of  human  help 
from  below!  How  carefully  he  uses  his  wasting  blade!  How 
anxiously  he  selects  the  softest  places  in  that  vast  pier ! How  he 
avoids  every  flinty  grain ! How  he  economizes  his  physical  powers, 
resting  a moment  at  each  gain  he  cuts!  How  every  motion  is 
watched  from  below!  There  stand  his  father,  mother,  brother, 
and  sister,  on  the  very  spot  where,  if  he  falls,  he  will  not  fall 
alone. 

The  sun  is  half  way  down  the  west.  The  lad  has  made  fifty 
additional  niches  in  that  mighty  wall,  and  now  finds  himself  directly 
under  the  middle  of  that  vast  arch  of  rocks,  earth,  and  trees.  He 
must  cut  his  way  in  a new  direction,  to  get  from  under  this  over- 
hanging mountain.  The  inspiration  of  hope  is  dying  in  his  bosom; 
its  vital  heat  is  fed  by  the  increasing  shouts  of  hundreds,  perched 
upon  cliffs  and  trees,  and  others  who  stand  with  ropes  in  their 
hands  on  the  bridge  above,  or  with  ladders  below. 

Fifty  more  gains  must  he  cut  before  the  longest  rope  can  reach 
him.  His  wasting  blade  strikes  again  into  the  limestone.  The  boy 
is  emerging  painfully,  foot  by  foot,  from  under  that  lofty  arch. 
Spliced  ropes  are  ready  in  the  hands  of  those  who  are  leaning  over 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


99 


the  outer  edge  of  the  bridge.  Two  minutes  more  and  all  must  be 
over.  The  blade  is  worn  to  the  last  half  inch.  The  boy’s  head 
reels;  his  eyes  are  starting  from  their  sockets.  His  last  hope  is 
dying  in  his  heart;  his  life  must  hang  on  the  next  gain  he  cuts. 
That  niche  is  the  last. 

At  the  last  faint  gash  he  makes,  his  knife — his  faithful  knife — 
falls  from  his  little  nerveless  hand,  and  ringing  along  the  precipice, 
falls  at  his  mother’s  feet.  An  involuntary  groan  of  despair  runs 
like  a death-knell  through  the  channel  below,  and  all  is  still  as  the 
grave.  At  the  height  of  nearly  three  hundred  feet,  the  devoted 
boy  lifts  his  hopeless  heart,  and  closes  his  eyes  to  commend  his 
soul  to  God. 

’Tis  but  a moment — there ! one  foot  swings  off — he  is  reeling — 
trembling — toppling  over  into  eternity ! Hark ! a shout  falls  on  his 
ear  from  above.  The  man  who  is  lying  with  half  his  length  over 
the  bridge  has  caught  a glimpse  of  the  boy’s  head  an,d  shoulders. 
Quick  as  thought  the  noosed  rope  is  within  reach  of  the  sinking 
youth.  No  one  breathes.  With  a faint  convulsive  effort,  the 
swooning  boy  drops  his  arms  into  the  noose.  Darkness  comes  over 
him,  and  with  the  words  God — Mother — the  tightening  rope  lifts 
him  out  of  his  last  shallow  niche.  Not  a lip  moves  while  he  is 
dangling  over  that  fearful  abyss;  but  when  a sturdy  Virginian 
reaches  down  and  draws  up  the  lad,  and  holds  him  up  in  his  arms 
before  the  tearful,  breathless  multitude,  such  shouting — such  leap- 
ing and  weeping  for  joy — never  greeted  the  ear  of  a human  being 
so  recovered  from  the  yawning  gulf  of  eternity. 


100 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


The  Personality  and  Uses  of  a Laugh. 

I would  be  willing  to  choose  my  friend  by  the  quality  of  his 
laugh,  and  abide  the  issue.  A glad,  gushing  outflow,  a clear, 
ringing,  mellow  note  of  the  soul,  as  surely  indicates  a genial  and 
genuine  nature  as  the  rainbow  in  the  dew-drop  heralds  the  morning 
sun,  or  the  frail  flower  in  the  wilderness  betrays  the  zephyr-tossed 
seed  of  the  parterre. 

A laugh  is  one  of  God’s  truths.  It  tolerates  no  disguises. 
Falsehood  may  train  its  voice  to  flow  in  softest  cadences,  its  lips 
to  wreathe  into  smiles  of  surpassing  sweetness,  its  face 

“ To  put  on 

That  look  we  trust  in 

but  its  laugh  will  betray  the  mockery.  Who  has  not  started  and 
shuddered  at  the  hollow  “he-he-he!”  of  some  velvet-voiced 
Mephistopheles,  whose  sinuous  fascinations,  without  this  note  of 
warning,  this  premonitory  rattle,  might  have  bound  the  soul  with  a 
strong  spell! 

Leave  nature  alone.  If  she  is  noble,  her  broadest  expression 
will  soon  tone  itself  down  to  fine  accordance  with  life’s  earnestness; 
if  she  is  base,  no  silken  inter  weavings  can  keep  out  of  sight  her 
ugly  head  of  discord.  If  we  put  a laugh  into  straight- jacket  and 
leading-strings,  it  becomes  an  abortion ; if  we  attempt  to  refine  it, 
we  destroy  its  pure,  mellifluent  ring;  if  we  suppress  a laugh,  it 
struggles  and  dies  on  the  heart,  and  the  place  where  it  lies  is  apt 
ever  after  to  be  weak  and  vulnerable.  No,  laugh  truly,  as  you 
would  speak  truly,  and  both  the  inner  and  the  outer  man  will 
rejoice.  A full,  spontaneous  outburst  opens  all  the  delicate  valves 
of  being,  and  glides  a subtle  oil  through  all  its  complicated 
mechanism. 

Laugh  heartily,  if  you  would  keep  the  dew  of  your  youth. 
There  is  no  need  to  lay  our  girlhood  and  boyhood  so  doggedly 
down  upon  the  altar  of  sacrifice  as  we  toil  up  life’s  mountain. 
Dear,  innocent  children,  lifting  their  dewy  eyes  and  fair  foreheads 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


101 


to  the  benedictions  of  angels,  prattling  and  gamboling  because  it 
is  a great  joy  to  live,  should  flit  like  sunbeams  among  the  stern- 
faced and  stalwart.  Young  men  and  maidens  should  walk  with 
strong,  elastic  tread,  and  cheerful  voices  among  the  weak  and 
uncertain.  White  hairs  should  be  no  more  the  insignia  of  age,  but 
the  crown  of  ripe  and  perennial  youth. 

Laugh  for  your  beauty.  The  joyous  carry  a fountain  of  light 
in  their  eyes,  and  round  into  rosy  dimples  where  the  echoes  of 
gladness  play  at  “hide-and-go-seek.”  Your  “lean  and  hungry 
Cassius”  is  never  betrayed  into  a laugh,  and  his  smile  is  more 
cadaverous  than  his  despair. 

Laugh  if  you  would  live.  He  only  exists  who  drags  his  days 
after  him  like  a massive  chain,  asking  sympathy  with  uplifted  eye- 
brows and  weak  utterance  as  the  beggar  asks  alms.  Better  die,  for 
your  own  sake  and  the  world’s  sake,  than  to  pervert  the  uses  and 
graces  and  dignities  of  life. 

Make  your  own  sunshine  and  your  own  music,  keep  your  heart 
open  to  the  smile  of  the  good  Father,  and  brave  all  things. 

“Care  to  our  coffin  adds  a nail,  no  doubt, 

And  every  laugh  so  merry  draws  one  out.” 


Omens. 

Poict.  I hope  we  shall  have  another  good  day  to-morrow,  for 
the  clouds  are  red  in  the  west. 

Phys.  I have  no  doubt  of  it,  for  the  red  has  a tint  of  purple. 

Hal.  Bo  you  know  why  this  tint  portends  fine  weather? 

Phys.  The  air  when  dry,  I believe,  refracts  more  red,  or  heat- 
making rays;  and  as  dry  air  is  not  perfectly  transparent,  they  are 
again  reflected  in  the  horizon.  I have  observed  generally  a coppery 
or  yellow  sunset  to  foretell  rain;  but,  as  an  indication  of  wet 
weather  approaching,  nothing  is  more  certain  than  a halo  round 
the  moon,  which  is  produced  by  the  precipitated  water;  and  the 
larger  the  circle,  the  nearer  the  clouds,  and,  consequently,  the  more 
ready  to  fall. 


102 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


Hal.  I have  often  observed  that  the  old  proverb  is  correct: 
“A  rainbow  in  the  morning  is  the  shepherd’s  warning.  A rain- 
bow at  night  is  the  shepherd’s  delight/’  Can  you  explain  this 
omen? 

JPhys.  A rainbow  can  only  occur  when  the  clouds  containing 
or  depositing  the  rain  are  opposite  to  the  sun, — and  in  the  evening 
the  rainbow  is  in  the  east,  and  in  the  morning  in  the  west ; and  as 
our  heavy  rains  in  this  climate  are  usually  brought  by  the  westerly 
wind,  a rainbow  in  the  west  indicates  that  the  bad  weather  is  on 
the  road,  by  the  wind,  to  us;  whereas  the  rainbow  in  the  east 
proves  that  the  rain  in  these  clouds  is  passing  from  us. 

Poict.  I have  often  observed  that  when  the  swallows  fly  high, 
fine  weather  is  to  be  expected  or  continued ; but  when  they  fly  low, 
and  close  to  the  ground,  rain  is  almost  surely  approaching.  Can 
you  account  for  this? 

Hal.  Swallows  follow  the  flies  and  gnats,  and  flies  and  gnats 
usually  delight  in  warm  strata  of  air;  and  as  warm  air  is  lighter, 
and  usually  moister  than  cold  air,  when  the  warm  strata  of  air  are 
higher,  there  is  less  chance  of  moisture  being  thrown  down  from 
them  by  the  mixture  with  cold  air;  but  when  the  warm  and  moist 
air  is  close  to  the  surface,  it  is  almost  certain  that,  as  the  cold  air 
flows  down  into  it,  a deposition  of  water  will  take  place. 

Poict.  I have  often  seen  sea-gulls  assemble  on  the  land,  and 
have  almost  always  observed  that  very  stormy  and  rainy  weather 
was  approaching.  I conclude  that  these  animals,  sensible  of  a 
current  of  air  approaching  from  the  ocean,  retire  to  the  land  to 
shelter  themselves  from  the  storm. 

Orn.  No  such  thing.  The  storm  is  their  element;  and  the 
little  petrel  enjoys  the  heaviest  gale,  because,  living  on  the  smaller 
sea  insect,  he  is  sure  to  find  his  food  in  the  spray  of  a heavy 
wave,  and  you  may  see  him  flitting  above  the  edge  of  the  highest 
surge.  I believe  that  the  reason  of  this  migration  of  sea-gulls  and 
other  sea-birds  to  the  land,  is  their  security  of  finding  food;  and 
they  may  be  observed,  at  this  time,  feeding  greedily  on  the  earth- 
worms and  larvae,  driven  out  of  the  ground  by  severe  floods;  and 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


103 


the  fish,  on  which  they  prey  in  fine  weather  in  the  sea,  leave  the 
surface  and  go  deeper  in  storms.  The  search  after  food,  as  we 
agreed  on  a former  occasion,  is  the  principal  cause  why  animals 
change  their  places.  The  different  tribes  of  the  wading  birds 
always  migrate  when  rain  is  about  to  take  place ; and  I remember 
once,  in  Italy,  having  been  long  waiting,  in  the  end  of  March,  for 
the  arrival  of  the  double  snipe  in  the  Campagne  of  Rome,  a great 
flight  appeared  on  the  3d  of  April,  and  the  day  after  heavy  rain  set 
in,  which  greatly  interfered  with  my  sport.  The  vulture,  upon 
the  same  principle,  follows  armies ; and  I have  no  doubt  that  the 
augury  of  the  ancients  was  a good  deal  founded  upon  the  obser- 
vation of  the  instincts  of  birds.  There  are  many  superstitions  of 
the  vulgar,  owing  to  the  same  source.  For  anglers,  in  Spring,  it 
is  always  unlucky  to  see  single  magpies,  but  two  may  be  always 
regarded  as  a favorable  omen ; and  the  reason  is,  that  in  cold  and 
stormy  weather  one  magpie  alone  leaves  the  nest  in  search  of  food, 
the  other  remaining  sitting  upon  the  eggs  or  the  young  ones ; but 
when  two  go  out  together,  it  is  only  when  the  weather  is  warm 
and  mild,  and  favorable  for  fishing. 

Poict.  The  singular  connections  of  causes  and  effects,  to  which 
you  have  just  referred,  make  superstition  less  to  be  wondered  at, 
particularly  amongst  the  vulgar;  and  when  two  facts,  naturally 
unconnected,  have  been  accidentally  coincident,  it  is  not  singular 
that  this  coincidence  should  have  been  observed  and  registered, 
and  that  omens  of  the  most  absurd  kind  should  be  trusted  in.  In 
the  west  of  England,  half  a century  ago,  a particular  hollow  noise 
on  the  sea-coast  was  referred  to  a spirit  or  goblin  called  Bucca,  and 
was  supposed  to  foretell  a shipwreck ; the  philosopher  knows  that 
sound  travels  much  faster  than  currents  in  the  air,  and  the  sound 
always  foretold  the  approach  of  a very  heavy  storm,  which  seldom 
takes  place  on  that  wild  and  rocky  coast  without  a shipwreck  on 
some  part  of  its  extensive  shores,  surrounded  by  the  Atlantic. 

Phys.  All  the  instances  of  omens  you  have  mentioned  are 
founded  on  reason ; but  how  can  you  explain  such  absurdities  as 
Friday  being  an  unlucky  day,  the  terror  of  spilling  salt,  or  meeting 
an  old  woman?  I knew  a man  of  very  high  dignity  who  was 


104 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


exceedingly  moved  by  these  omens,  and  who  never  went  out  shoot- 
ing without  a bittern’s  claw  fastened  to  his  button-hole  by  a riband, 
which  he  thought  insured  him  good  luck. 

Poict.  These,  as  well  as  the  omens  of  death-watches,  dreams, 
etc.,  are  for  the  most  part  founded  upon  some  accidental  coincidence ; 
but  spilling  of  salt,  on  an  uncommon  occasion,  may,  as  I have 
known  it,  arise  from  a disposition  to  apoplexy,  shown  by  an  incip- 
ient numbness  in  the  hand,  and  may  be  a fatal  symptom;  and 
persons  dispirited  by  bad  omens  sometimes  prepare  the  way  for  evil 
fortune,  for  confidence  in  success  is  a great  means  of  insuring  it. 
The  dream  of  Brutus  before  the  field  of  Pharsalia  probably  pro- 
duced a species  of  irresolution  and  despondency  which  was  the 
principal  cause  of  his  losing  the  battle ; and  I * have  heard  that  the 
illustrious  sportsman  to  whom  you  referred  just  now,  was  always 
observed  to  shoot  ill,  because  he  shot  carelessly,  after  one  of  his 
dispiriting  omens. 

Hal.  I have  in  life  met  with  a few  things  which  I have  found 
it  impossible  to  explain,  either  by  chance  coincidences  or  by  natural 
connections,  and  I have  known  minds  of  a very  superior  class 
affected  by  them — persons  in  the  habit  of  reasoning  deeply  and 
profoundly. 

Phys.  In  my  opinion,  profound  minds  are  the  most  likely 
to  think  lightly  of  the  resources  of  human  reason;  and  it  is  the 
pert  superficial  thinker  who  is  generally  strongest  in  every  kind  of 
unbelief.  The  deep  philosopher  sees  chains  of  causes  and  effects 
so  wonderfully  and  strangely  linked  together,  that  he  is  usually  the 
last  person  to  decide  upon  the  impossibility  of  any  two  series  of  events 
being  made  independent  of  each  other;  and  in  science  so  many 
natural  miracles,  as  it  were,  have  been  brought  to  light,  such  as 
the  fall  of  stones  from  meteors  in  the  atmosphere,  the  disarming  a 
thunder-cloud  by  a metallic  point,  the  production  of  fire  from  ice  by 
a metal  white  as  silver,  and  the  referring  certain  laws  of  motion  of 
the  sea  to  the  moon,  that  the  physical  inquirer  is  seldom  disposed 
to  assert  confidently  on  any  abstruse  subjects  belonging  to  the 
order  of  natural  things,  and  still  less  so  those  relating  to  the  more 
mysterious  relations  of  moral  events  and  intellectual  natures 


JOHN  RUSKIN. 


TBEASUEES  FEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOBLD. 


105 


JOHN  BUSKIN. 


JOHN  EIJSKIN  was  born  in  London,  England,  February, 
1819.  Having  inherited  a large  fortune  from  his  father, 
he  was  enabled  to  make  complete  preparation  for  his  life 
work  and  to  devote  his  entire  time  to  art  and  literature.  In 
1 842,  he  graduated  at  Oxford,  and  further  prepared  himself 
by  studying  art  and  learning  water-color  painting.  His  lit- 
erary work  may  be  recorded  as  follows : In  1839,  he  gained 
a prize  for  a poem  entitled  Salsetto  Elphanta ; in  1843, 
Modern  Painters : Their  Superiority  in  the  Art  of  Landscape 
Painting  to  all  the  Ancient  Masters . The  fifth  volume  of  this 
treatise  was  published  in  1860. 

The  Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture  appeared  in  1849 ; 
Pre-Raphaelitism  and  The  King  of  the  Golden  River , in  1851 ; 
The  Stones  of  Venice,  1851-3 ; Lectures  on  Architecture  and 
Painting,  1854;  Elements  af  Drawing,  1857 ; The  Political 
Economy  of  Art,  1858  ; The  Two  Paths,  1859  ; TJnto  This  Last , 
1862  ; Sesame  and  Lilies,  1864 ; The  Ethics  of  the  Dust,  1865  ; 
The  Crown  of  Wild  Olive,  1866;  and  The  Queen  of  the  Air, 
1869.  He  has  also  written  extensively  for  periodicals. 

In  1867  he  was  appointed  Rede  Lecturer  at  Cambridge, 
and  in  1869  was  elected  Professor  of  Fine  Arts  at  Oxford. 
At  Oxford  he  endowed  a chair  of  drawing.  He  is  also  prom- 
inent as  a popular  public  speaker. 

Those  who  love  the  true  and  beautiful  in  Nature  and  Art, 
and  who  admire  an  attractive  statement  of  pure  and  enno- 
bling thoughts,  will  be  amply  repaid  for  their  time  in  reading 
Ruskin. 


106 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


Precipices  of  the  Alps. 

Dark  in  color,  robed  with  everlasting  mourning,  forever  totter- 
ing like  a great  fortress  shaken  by  war,  fearful  as  much  in  their 
weakness  as  in  their  strength,  and  yet  gathered  after  every  fall  into 
darker  frowns  and  unliumiliating  threatening;  forever  incapable  of 
comfort  or  healing  from  herb  or  flower,  nourishing  no  root  in  their 
crevices,  touched  by  no  hue  of  life  on  buttress  or  ledge,  but  to  the 
utmost  desolate ; knowing  no  shaking  of  leaves  in  the  wind,  nor  of 
grass  beside  the  stream — no  other  motion  but  their  own  mortal 
shivering,  the  dreadful  crumbling  of  atom  from  atom  in  their  cor- 
rupting stones ; knowing  no  sound  of  living  voice  or  living  tread, 
cheered  neither  by  the  kid’s  bleat  nor  the  marmot’s  cry;  haunted 
only  by  uninterrupted  echoes  from  afar  off,  wandering  hither  and 
thither  among  their  walls  unable  to  escape,  and  by  the  hiss  of 
angry  torrents,  and  sometimes  the  shriek  of  a bird  that  flits  near 
the  face  of  them,  and  sweeps,  frightened,  back  from  under  their 
shadow  into  the  gulf  of  air;  and  sometimes,  when  the  echo  has 
fainted,  and  the  wind  has  carried  the  sound  of  the  torrent  away, 
and  the  bird  has  vanished,  and  the  moldering  stones  are  still  for  a 
little  time — a brown  moth,  opening  and  shutting  its  wings  upon  a 
grain  of  dust,  may  be  the  only  thing  that  moves  or  feels  in  all  the 
waste  of  weary  precipice  darkening  five  thousand  feet  of  the  blue 
depth  of  heaven. 


The  Fall  of  the  Leaf. 

If  ever,  in  Autumn,  a pensiveness  falls  upon  us  as  the  leaves 
drift  by  in  their  fading,  may  we  not  wisely  look  up  in  hope  to  their 
mighty  monuments?  Behold  how  fair,  how  far  prolonged  in  arch 
and  aisle,  the  avenues  of  the  valleys,  the  fringes  of  the  hills ! So 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


107 


stately — so  eternal;  the  joy  of  man,  the  comfort  of  all  living  creat- 
ures, the  glory  of  the  earth — they  are  but  the  monuments  of  those 
poor  leaves  that  flit  faintly  past  us  to  die.  Let  them  not  pass 
without  our  understanding  their  last  counsel  and  example ; that  we 
also,  careless  of  monument  by  the  grave,  may  build  it  in  the  world 
— monument  by  which  men  may  be  taught  to  remember,  not  where 
we  died,  but  where  we  lived. 


The  Sky, 

Not  long  ago  I was  slowly  descending  the  carriage  road  after 
you  leave  Albano.  It  had  been  wild  weather  when  I left  Rome,  and 
all  across  the  Campagna  the  clouds  were  sweeping  in  sulphurous 
blue,  with  a clap  of  thunder  or  two,  and  breaking  gleams  of  sun 
along  the  Claudian  aqueduct,  lighting  up  its  arches  like  the  bridge 
of  chaos.  But  as  I climbed  the  long  slope  of  the  Alban  mount,  the 
storm  swept  finally  to  the  north,  and  the  noble  outline  of  the  domes 
of  Albano  and  the  graceful  darkness  of  its  ilex  grove  rose  against 
pure  streaks  of  alternate  blue  and  amber,  the  upper  sky  gradually 
flushing  through  the  last  fragments  of  rain-cloud,  in  deep  palpitating 
azure,  half  ether  and  half  dew.  The  noon-day  sun  came  slanting 
down  the  rocky  slopes  of  La  Ricca,  and  its  masses  of  entangled  and 
tall  foliage,  whose  autumnal  tints  were  mixed  with  the  wet  verdure 
of  a thousand  evergreens,  were  penetrated  with  it  as  with  rain.  I 
cannot  call  it  color,  it  was  conflagration.  Purple,  and  crimson  and 
scarlet,  like  the  curtains  of  God’s  tabernacle,  the  rejoicing  trees 
sank  into  the  valley  in  showers  of  light,  every  separate  leaf  quivering 
with  buoyant  and  burning  life;  each,  as  it  turned  to  reflect  or  to 
transmit  the  sunbeam,  first  a torch  and  then  an  emerald.  Far  up 
into  the  recesses  of  the  valley,  the  green  vistas,  arched  like  the  hol- 
lows of  mighty  waves  of  some  crystalline  sea,  with  the  arbutus 
flowers  dashed  along  their  flanks  for  foam,  and  silver  flakes  of 


108 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


orange  spray  tossed  into  the  air  around  them,  breaking  over  the 
gray  walls  of  rock  into  a thousand  separate  stars,  fading  and  kind- 
ling alternately  as  the  weak  wind  lifted  and  let  them  fall.  Every 
blade  of  grass  burned  like  the  golden  floor  of  heaven  opening  in 
sudden  gleams  as  the  foliage  broke  and  closed  above  it,  as  sheet 
lightning  opens  in  a cloud  at  sunset  the  motionless  masses  of  dark 
rock — dark,  though  flushed  with  scarlet  lichen,  casting  their  quiet 
shadows  across  its  restless  radiance,  the  fountain  underneath  them 
filling  its  marble  hollow  with  blue  mist  and  fitful  sound,  and,  over 
all, — the  multitudinous  bars  of  amber  and  rose,  the  sacred  clouds 
that  have  no  darkness,  and  only  exist  to  illumine,  were  seen  in  in- 
tervals between  the  solemn  and  orbed  repose  of  the  stone  pines, 
passing  to  lose  themselves  in  the  last,  white,  blinding  luster  of  the 
measureless  line  where  the  Campagna  melted  into  the  blaze  of  the  sea. 

******** 

Are  not  all  natural  things,  it  may  be  asked,  as  lovely  near  as 
far  away?  By  no  means.  Look  at  the  clouds  and  watch  the  deli- 
cate sculpture  of  their  alabaster  sides,  and  the  rounded  luster  of 
their  magnificent  rolling.  They  are  meant  to  be  beheld  far  away  : 
they  were  shaped  for  their  place  high  above  your  head:  approach 
them  and  they  fuse  into  vague  mists,  or  whirl  away  in  fierce  frag- 
ments of  thunderous  vapor.  Look  at  the  crest  of  the  Alp  from  the 
far  away  plains  over  which  its  light  is  cast,  whence  human  souls 
have  communed  with  it  by  their  myriads.  It  was  built  for  its  place 
in  the  far  off  sky : approach  it,  and  as  the  sound  of  the  voice  of  man 
dies  away  about  its  foundations,  and  the  tide  of  human  life  is  met 
at  last  by  the  eternal  “Here  shall  thy  waves  be  stayed,”  the  glory 
of  its  aspect  fades  into  blanched  fearfulness : its  purple  walls  are 
rent  into  grisly  rocks,  its  silver  fret-work  saddened  into  wasting 
snow : the  storm-brands  of  ages  are  on  its  breast,  the  ashes  of  its 
own  ruin  he  solemnly  on  its  white  raiment. 

If  you  desire  to  perceive  the  great  harmonies  of  the  form  of  a rocky 
mountain,  you  must  not  ascend  upon  its  sides.  All  there  is  disorder 
and  accident,  or  seems  so.  Retire  from  it,  and  as  your  eye  commands 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


109 


it  more  and  more,  you  see  the  ruined  mountain  world  with  a wider 
glance;  behold!  dim  sympathies  begin  to  busy  themselves  in  the 
disjointed  mass : line  binds  itself  into  stealthy  fellowship  with  line : 
group  by  group  the  helpless  fragments  gather  themselves  into 
ordered  companies : new  captains  of  hosts,  and  masses  of  battalions 
become  visible  one  by  one;  and  far  away  answers  of  foot  to  foot 
and  of  bone  to  bone,  until  the  powerless  is  seen  risen  up  with  girded 
loins,  and  not  one  piece  of  all  the  unregarded  heap  can  now  be 
spared  from  the  mystic  whole. 


The  Old  Churchyard. 

The  next  day,  the  day  of  the  resurrection,  rose  glorious  from 
its  sepulchre  of  sea-fog  and  drizzle.  It  had  poured  all  night  long, 
but  at  sunrise  the  clouds  had  broken  and  scattered,  and  the  air  was 
the  purer  for  the  cleansing  rain,  while  the  earth  shone  with  that 
peculiar  luster  which  follows  the  weeping  which  has  endured  its 
appointed  night.  The  larks  were  at  it  again,  singing  as  if  their 
hearts  would  break  for  joy  as  they  hovered  in  brooding  exultation 
over  the  song  of  the  future ; for  their  nests  beneath  hoarded  a wealth 
of  larks  for  Summers  to  come.  Especially  about  the  old  churchyard, 
half  buried  in  the  ancient  trees  of  Lossie  House,  the  birds  that  day 
were  jubilant;  their  throats  seemed  too  narrow  to  let  out  the  joyful 
air  that  filled  all  their  hollow  bones  and  quills ; they  sang  as  if  they 
must  sing  or  choke  with  too  much  gladness.  Beyond  the  short 
spire  and  its  shining  cock  rose  the  balls  and  stars  and  arrowy 
vanes  of  the  house,  glittering  in  gold  and  sunshine.  The  inward 
hush  of  the  resurrection,  broken  only  by  the  prophetic  birds,  the 
poets  of  the  groaning  and  travailing  creation,  held  time  and  space 
as  in  a trance ; and  the  center  from  which  radiated  both  the  hush 
and  the  caroling  expectation  seemed  to  Alexander  Graham  to  be 
the  churchyard  in  which  he  was  now  walking  in  the  cool  of  the 


110 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


morning.  It  was  more  carefully  kept  than  most  Scottish  church- 
yards, and  yet  was  not  too  trim;  nature  had  a word  in  the  affair — 
was  allowed  her  part  of  mourning  in  long  grass  and  moss  and  the 
crumbling  away  of  stone.  The  wholesomeness  of  decay,  which 
both  in  nature  and  humanity  is  but  the  miry  road  back  to  life,  was 
not  unrecognized  here,  there  was  nothing  of  the  hideous  attempt 
to  hide  death  in  the  garments  of  life.  The  master  walked  about 
gently,  now  stopping  to  read  some  well-known  inscription,  and 
ponder  for  a moment  over  the  words ; and  now  wandering  across 
the  stoneless  mounds,  content  to  be  forgotten  by  all  but  those  who 
loved  the  departed.  At  length  he  seated  himself  on  a slab  by  the 
side  of  the  mound  that  rose  but  yesterday ; it  was  sculptured  with 
symbols  of  decay — needless,  surely,  where  the  originals  lay  about 
the  mouth  of  every  newly-opened  grave,  as  surely  ill  befitting  the 
precincts  of  a church  whose  indwelling  gospel  is  of  life  victorious 
over  death!  “What  are  these  stones,”  he  said  to  himself,  “but 
monuments  to  oblivion!”  They  are  not  memorials  of  the  dead,  but 
memorials  of  the  forgetfulness  of  the  living.  How  vain  it  is  to 
send  a poor  forsaken  name,  like  the  title-page  of  a lost  book,  down 
the  careless  stream  of  time!  Let  me  serve  my  generation,  and 
may  God  remember  me ! 


Home. 

Society  is  marked  by  greater  and  smaller  divisions,  as  into 
nations,  communities,  and  families.  A man  is  a member  of  the 
commonwealth,  a smaller  community,  as  a hamlet  or  city,  and  his 
family  at  the  same  time ; and  the  more  perfectly  all  his  duties  to  his 
family  are  discharged,  the  more  fully  does  he  discharge  his  duties 
to  the  community  and  the  nation ; for  a good  member  of  a family 
cannot  he  a bad  member  of  the  commonwealth,  for  he  that  is  faith- 
ful in  what  is  least  will  also  be  faithful  in  what  is  greater.  Indeed, 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


Ill 


the  more  perfectly  a man  fulfills  all  his  domestic  duties,  the  more 
perfectly,  in  that  very  act,  has  he  discharged  his  duty  to  the 
whole;  for  the  whole  is  made  up  of  parts,  and  its  health  depends 
entirely  upon  the  health  of  the  various  parts.  There  are,  of  course, 
general  as  well  as  specific  duties;  but  the  more  conscientious  a man 
is  in  the  discharge  of  specific  duties,  the  more  ready  will  he  be  to 
perform  those  that  are  general;  and  we  believe  that  the  converse  of 
this  will  be  found  equally  true,  and  that  those  who  have  least  regard 
for  home — who  have,  indeed,  no  home,  no  domestic  circle — are  the 
worst  citizens.  This  they  may  not  be  apparently;  they  may  not 
break  the  laws,  nor  do  anything  to  call  down  upon  them  censure 
from  the  community,  and  yet,  in  the  secret  and  almost  unconscious 
dissemination  of  demoralizing  principles,  may  be  doing  a work  far 
more  destructive  of  the  public  good  than  if  they  had  committed  a 
robbery. 

We  always  feel  pain  when  we  hear  a young  man  speak  lightly 
of  home,  and  talk  carelessly,  or  it  may  be  with  sportive  ridicule, 
of  the  “old  man,”  and  the  “old  woman,”  as  if  they  were  of  but 
little  consequence.  We  mark  it  as  a bad  indication,  and  feel  that 
the  feet  of  that  young  man  are  treading  upon  dangerous  ground. 
His  home  education  may  not  have  been  of  the  best  kind,  nor  may 
home  influences  have  reached  his  higher  and  better  feelings ; but  he 
is  at  least  old  enough  now  to  understand  the  causes,  and  to  seek 
rather  to  bring  into  his  home  all  that  it  needs  to  render  it  more  at- 
tractive, than  to  estrange  himself  from  it,  and  expose  its  defects. 

Instances  of  this  kind  are  not  of  very  frequent  occurrence. 
Home  has  its  charms  for  nearly  all,  and  the  very  name  comes  with 
a blessing  to  the  spirit.  This,  however,  is  more  the  case  with  those 
who  have  been  separated  from  it,  than  it  is  with  those  who  yet  re- 
main in  the  old  homestead,  with  parents,  brothers,  and  sisters  as 
their  friends  and  companions. 

The  earnest  love  of  home,  felt  by  nearly  all  who  have  been 
compelled  to  leave  that  pleasant  place,  is  a feeling  that  should 
be  tenderly  cherished,  and  this  love  should  be  kept  alive 
by  associations  that  have  in  them  as  perfect  a resemblance  of 


112 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


home  as  it  is  possible  to  obtain.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  it  is 
bad  for  a young  man  to  board  in  a large  hotel,  where  there  is  noth- 
ing in  which  there  is  even  an  image  of  the  home  circle.  Each  has 
his  separate  chamber ; but  that  is  not  home ; all  meet  together  at 
the  common  table;  but  there  is  no  home  feeling  there,  with  its  many 
sweet  reciprocations.  The  meal  completed,  all  separate,  each  to  his 
individual  pursuit  or  pleasure.  There  is  a parlor,  it  is  true ; but 
there  are  no  family  gatherings  there.  One  and  another  sit  there, 
as  inclination  prompts;  but  each  sits  alone,  busy  with  his  own 
thoughts.  All  this  is  a poor  substitute  for  home.  And  yet  it  offers 
its  attractions  to  some.  A young  man  in  a hotel  has  more  freedom 
than  in  a family  or  private  boarding  house.  He  comes  in  and 
goes  out  unobserved;  there  is  no  one  to  say  to  him,  “why?”  or 
“wherefore?”  But  this  is  a dangerous  freedom,  and  one  which  no 
young  man  should  desire. 

But  mere  negative  evils,  so  to  speak,  are  not  the  worst 
that  beset  a young  man  who  unwisely  chooses  a public  hotel  as  a 
place  of  boarding.  He  is  much  more  exposed  to  temptations  there 
than  in  a private  boarding  house  or  at  home.  Men  of  licentious 
habits,  in  most  cases,  select  hotels  as  boarding  places ; and  such 
rarely  scruple  to  offer  to  the  ardent  minds  of  young  men,  with 
whom  they  happen  to  fall  in  company,  those  allurements  that  are 
most  likely  to  lead  them  away  from  virtue.  And,  besides  this,  there 
being  no  evening  home  circle  in  a hotel,  a young  man  who  is  not 
engaged  earnestly  in  some  pursuit  that  occupies  his  hours  of  leisure 
from  business,  has  nothing  to  keep  him  there,  but  is  forced  to  seek 
for  something  to  interest  his  mind  elsewhere,  and  is,  in  consequence, 
more  open  to  temptation. 

Home  is  man’s  true  place.  Every  man  should  have  a home. 
Here  his  first  duties  he,  and  here  he  finds  the  strength  by  which  he 
is  able  successfully  to  combat  in  fife’s  temptations.  Happy  is  that 
young  man  who  is  still  blessed  with  a home — who  has  his  mother’s 
counsel  and  the  pure  love  of  sisters  to  strengthen  and  cheer  him 
amid  fife’s  opening  combats. 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


na 


Parents. 

Although  the  attainment  of  mature  age  takes  away  the  obliga- 
tion of  obedience  to  parents,  as  well  as  the  right  of  dependence  upon 
them,  it  should  lessen  in  no  way  a young  man’s  deference,  respect, 
or  affection.  For  twenty-one  years,  or  from  the  earliest  period  of 
infancy,  through  childhood  and  youth,  up  to  mature  age,  his  parents 
have  felt  and  thought,  and  labored  for  him.  They  have  watched 
over  his  pillow,  anxiously,  in  sickness;  they  have,  with  the  most 
unselfish  love,  earnestly  sought  his  good  in  everything,  even  to  the 
extent  of  much  self-denial;  and  can  he  now  offer  them  less  than 
deference,  respect,  and  affection?  No;  surely  no  young  man  will 
withhold  this. 

Let  us  show  you  a picture.  Do  you  see  that  feeble  infant 
asleep  on  its  mother’s  bosom?  How  helpless  it  lies ! How  depend- 
ent it  is  upon  others  for  everything ! The  neglect  of  a moment 
might  cause  some  fatal  injury  to  a being  so  entirely  powerless. 
But  that  mother’s  love  neither  slumbers  nor  sleeps.  It  is  ever 
around  the  fragile  creature  committed  to  her  care,  and  she  is  ready 
to  guard  its  fife  with  her  own.  You  once  lay  thus  in  your  mother’s 
arms,  and  she  nourished  your  helpless  infancy  thus  at  her  bosom. 
She  watched  over  you,  loved  you,  protected  and  defended  you;  and 
all  was  from  love, — deep,  pure,  fervent  love, — the  first  love  and  the 
most  unselfish  love  that  ever  has  or  ever  will  bless  you  in  this  life, 
for  it  asked  for  and  expected  no  return.  A mother  s love! — it  is  the 
most  perfect  reflection  of  the  love  of  God  ever  thrown  back  from 
the  mirror  of  a human  heart. 

Here  is  another  picture.  A mother  sits  in  grief,  and  her  boy, 
now  no  longer  an  infant,  stands  in  sullen  disobedience  by  her  side. 
She  has  striven  to  correct  his  faults  for  his  own  good,  and  in  love 
reproved  him ; but  he  would  not  regard  her  admonitions.  Again 
and  again  she  has  sought,  by  gentle  urgings,  to  direct  him  to 


114 


TEEASUEES  FEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


good;  but  all  has  been  in  vain,  and  she  now  resorts  to  punishment 
that  is  far  more  painful  toiler  than  to  her  child.  The  scene  is  changed. 
See  where  she  sits  now,  #lone,  bitterly  weeping.  There  is  an 
image  in  her  mind,  and  but  one,  that  obscures  all  the  rest;  it  is  the 
image  of  her  suffering  child — suffering  by  her  hand ! Her  breast 

labors  heavily,  her  heart  is  oppressed — she  feels  deep  anguish  of 
spirit.  But  she  has  done  her  duty,  painful  though  it  has  been, 
and  that  sustains  her.  You  were  once  a boy  like  that;  and  thus 
your  own  mother  has  grieved  over  your  disobedience,  and  felt  the 
same  bitterness  of  spirit.  And  love  for  you  was  the  cause.  Can 
you  ever  forget  this? 

Do  you  see  that  darkened  chamber?  By  the  bed  of  sickness 
sits  a pale  watcher,  and  there  are  tears  upon  her  cheek.  Day  and 
night,  for  nearly  a week,  has  she  sat  by  the  bed,  or  moved  with 
noiseless  feet  about  the  room.  She  has  not  taken  off  her  garments 
during  the  time;  nor  has  she  joined  the  family  at  their  regular 
meals.  Who  is  the  object  of  all  this  deep  solicitude?  It  is  her 
child.  The  hand  of  sickness  is  upon  him,  and  he  has  drawn  near 
to  the  gates  of  death.  In  her  solicitude  she  forgets  even  herself. 
She  has  but  one  thought,  and  that  is  for  her  offspring.  Her  love, 
her  care,  her  anxious  hopes  are  at  length  rewarded.  The  destroyer 
passes  by  and  leaves  her  her  child.  Thus  has  your  mother  watched, 
day  by  day  and  night  by  night,  beside  your  couch  of  sickness. 
Never  forget  this,  young  man.  Forget  every  other  obligation,  but 
never  forget  how  much  you  owe  your  mother!  You  can  never 
know  a thousandth  part  of  what  she  has  endured  for  your  sake ; and 
now,  in  her  old  age,  all  she  asks  is  that  you  will  love  her — not 
with  the  love  she  still  bears  to  you ; she  does  not  expect  that — and 
care  for  her,'  that  life’s  sunshine  may  still  come  through  the  win- 
dows and  over  the  threshold  of  her  dwelling. 

And  with  no  less  of  respect  and  affection  should  a young  man 
think  of  his  father.  Not  until  his  own  life-trials  come  on  will  he 
fully  understand  how  much  he  owes  his  father.  It  is  no  light  task 
which  a man  takes  upon  himself — that  of  sustaining,  by  his  single 
efforts,  a whole  family,  and  sustaining  them  in  comfort,  and  per- 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


115 


haps  in  luxury.  You  have  an  education  that  enables  you  to  take  a 
respectable  position  in  society;  you  have  a groundwork  of  good 
principles ; habits  of  industry ; in  fact,  all  that  a young  man  need  ask 
for  in  order  that  he  may  rise  in  the  world ; and  for  these  you  are 
indebted  to  your  father.  To  give  you  such  advantages  cost  him 
labor,  self-denial,  and  much  anxious  thought.  Many  times,  during 
the  struggle  to  sustain  his  family,  has  he  been  pressed  down  with 
worldly  difficulties,  and  almost  ready  to  despair.  He  has  seen  his 
last  dollar,  it  may  be,  leave  his  hand,  without  knowing  certainly 
where  the  next  was  to  come  from.  But  still  his  love  for  his  children 
has  urged  him  on,  and  by  new  and  more  vigorous  efforts  he  has 
overcome  the  difficulties  by  which  he  was  surrounded. 

A young  man  should  think  often  of  these  things,  and  let  them 
influence  his  conduct  to  his  parents.  There  will  come  a time  in  life 
when  such  thoughts  will  force  themselves  upon  him;  but  these 
thoughts  may  come  too  late. 

Toward  parents  the  deportment  should  always  be  deferential 
and  kind.  A young  man,  who  properly  reflects  upon  the  new  rela- 
tion now  existing  between  them  and  himself,  will  naturally  change 
his  manner  of  address,  and  be  far  more  guarded  than  he  was  before 
he  arrived  of  age,  lest  he  say  or  do  anything  that  might  cause  them 
* to  feel  that  he  now  considered  himself  beyond  their  control.  When 
they  advise,  he  should  consider  well  what  they  say;  and,  if  compelled 
to  differ  from  them,  he  should  carefully  explain  the  reason,  and 
show  truly  his  regret  at  not  being  able  to  act  from  their  judgment 
of  the  matter.  As  a general  thing,  however,  he  will  find  their  ad- 
vice better  than  the  counsels  of  his  own  scarcely  fledged  reason,  and 
he  will  do  well  seriously  to  deliberate  upon  it  before  taking  his  own 
course. 

Above  all,  let  no  unkind  word  ever  pass  your  lips.  Nothing 
stings  so,  nothing  so  deeply  wounds  the  heart  of  a parent,  as  harsh 
words  from  his  children  who  have  grown  up  and  become  men  and 
women.  Almost  as  bad  as  this  is  neglect.  v 

The  older  your  father  and  mother  grow,  the  narrower  becomes 
the  sphere  of  their  hopes  and  wishes  until,  at  length,  all  thought 


116 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


and  all  affections  are  centered  on  their  children.  But  while  this  is 
going  on,  the  children’s  minds  are  becoming  more  and  more  ab- 
sorbed in  the  cares,  duties,  and  new  affections  of  life,  until  their 
parents  are  almost  forgotten.  Forewarned  of  this  tendency,  let 
every  one  strive  against  it,  lest  he  wound  by  neglect,  either  seeming 
or  real,  a heart  that  has  loved  him  from  life’s  earliest  dawn  up  to 
the  present  moment. 

But  not  alone  in  deference,  respect,  and  marks  of  affection  he 
the  limits  of  a young  man’s  duties  to  his  parents.  He  should  en- 
deavor to  take  up  and  bear  for  them,  if  too  heavy  for  their  declining 
strength,  some  of  the  burdens  that  oppress  them.  He  should  particu- 
larly consider  his  father,  and  see  if  the  entire  support  of  the  family 
that  yet  remains  upon  his  hands  does  not  tax  his  efforts  too  far; 
and  if  such  he  the  case,  he  should  deny  himself  almost  anything,  in 
order  to  render  some  aid.  For  years,  he  has  been  receiving  all 
that  he  required,  and  it  is  now  hut  fair  that  he  should  begin  to 
make  some  return. 

How  often  do  we  see  two  or  three  sons,  all  in  the  receipt  of 
good  salaries,  spending  their  money  in  self-indulgences,  while  their 
father  is  toiling  on  for  his  younger  children,  broken  in  health,  per- 
haps disappointed  in  his  worldly  prospects,  and  almost  despairing 
in  regard  to  the  final  result  of  all  his  efforts ! They  come  and  go,  and 
never  think  that  anything  is  due  from  them.  It  does  not  occur  to 
them  that  if  each  were  to  deny  himself  the  gratification  of  his  desires  to 
the  extent  of  one  hundred  dollars  a year,  and  the  aggregate  amount 
were  placed  in  their  father’s  hands  to  aid  in  supporting  the  family,  it 
would  take  a mountain  of  care  from  his  shoulders.  Why  is  it  that 
so  many  young  men  forget  their  duty  in  this  important  matter? 
One  would  think  that  no  prompter  was  required  here  to  remind 
them  of  their  part.  But  it  is  not  so.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  a thing 
of  such  rare  occurrence  for  a son  to  practice  self-denial  for  the  sake 
of  his  parents,  that,  wherever  it  is  seen,  it  forms  the  subject  of 
remark. 

We  often  see  parents  who  have  enjoyed  but  few  advantages 
themselves,  and  who,  in  consequence,  are  compelled  to  occupy  lower 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


117 


and  more  laborious  positions  in  the  world,  denying  themselves 
many  comforts  and  all  the  luxuries  of  life,  in  order  to  give  their 
children  the  very  best  education  possible  for  them  to  provide.  We 
see  these  children  growing  up,  and  too  often  the  first  return  they 
make  is  in  the  form  of  invidious  comparisons  between  themselves 
and  the  parents  to  whom  they  owe  almost  everything ! In  a little 
while  they  step  into  the  world  as  men,  and,  becoming  absorbed  in 
its  pursuits  from  various  selfish  ends,  seem  to  forget  entirely  that 
their  parents  are  still  toiling  on,  enfeebled  by  years  and  over-exer- 
tion for  their  sakes,  and  with  the  very  sweat  of  their  time-worn 
brows  digging  out  from  the  hard  earth,  so  to  speak,  the  scanty  food 
and  raiment  required  to  sustain  nature.  Ah ! but  this  is  a melan- 
choly sight.  Could  anything  tell  the  sad  tale  of  man’s  declension 
from  good  so  eloquently  as  this? 

It  is  plainly  the  duty  of  every  young  man,  whose  parents  are 
poor  and  compelled  to  labor  beyond  their  strength,  to  aid  them  to 
the  extent  of  his  ability.  They  have  borne  the  burden  for  him  for 
many  years.  From  their  toil  and  self-denial  he  now  has  the  means 
of  rising  higher  in  the  world  than  they  had  the  ability  ever  to  rise ; 
but  he  is  unjust  and  ungrateful  if,  in  his  eager  efforts  to  advance 
too  rapidly,  he  forget  and  neglect  them.  Nothing  can  excuse  con- 
duct so  unnatural,  so  cruel. 


The  Spider  and  the  Bee. 

Upon  the  highest  corner  of  a large  window  there  dwelt  a certain 
spider,  swollen  up  to  the  first  magnitude  by  the  destruction  of  infin- 
ite numbers  of  flies,  whose  spoils  lay  scattered  before  the  gates  of  his 
palace,  like  human  bones  before  the  cave  of  some  giant.  The 
avenues  to  his  castle  were  guarded  with  turnpikes  and  palisadoes. 
After  you  had  passed  several  courts  you  came  to  the  center, 
wherein  you  might  behold  the  constable  himself,  in  his  own  lodg- 
ings, which  had  windows  fronting  to  each  avenue,  and  ports  to 


118 


TREASURES  EROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


sally  out  upon  all  occasions  of  prey  or  defense.  In  this  mansion  he 
had  for  some  time  dwelt  in  peace  and  plenty,  without  danger  to  his 
person  by  swallows  from  above,  or  to  his  palace  by  brooms  from 
below,  when  it  was  the  pleasure  of  fortune  to  conduct  thither  a 
wandering  bee,  to  whose  curiosity  a broken  pane  in  the  glass  had 
discovered  itself,  and  in  he  went,  where,  expatiating  a while,  he 
at  last  happened  to  alight  upon  one  of  the  outer  walls  of  the  spider’s 
citadel,  which,  yielding  to  the  unequal  weight,  sunk  down  to  the  very 
foundation.  Thrice  he  endeavored  to  force  his  passage,  and  thrice 
the  center  shook.  The  spider  within,  feeling  the  terrible  convul- 
sion, supposed  at  first  that  nature  was  approaching  to  her  final  dis- 
solution, or  else  that  Beelzebub,  with  all  his  legions,  was  come  to 
revenge  the  death  of  many  thousands  of  his  subjects  whom  his 
enemy  had  slain  and  devoured.  However,  he  at  length  valiantly 
resolved  to  issue  forth  and  meet  his  fate.  Meanwhile  the  bee  had 
acquitted  himself  of  his  toils,  and  posted  securely  at  some  distance, 
was  employed  in  cleansing  his  wings,  and  disengaging  them  from  the 
rugged  remnants  of  the  cobweb.  By  this  time  the  spider  was  adven- 
tured out,  when  beholding  the  chasms,  the  ruins  and  dilapidations 
of  his  fortress,  he  was  very  near  at  his  wit’s  end;  he  stormed  and 
swore  like  a madman,  and  swelled  till  he  was  ready  to  hurst.  At 
length,  casting  his  eye  upon  the  bee,  and  wisely  gathering  causes 
from  events  (for  they  knew  each  other  by  sight),  “A  plague  split 
you,”  said  he,  “for  a giddy  puppy;  is  it  you,  with  a vengeance,  that 
has  made  this  litter  here?  Could  you  not  look  before  you?  Do 
you  think  I have  nothing  else  to  do  but  to  mend  and  repair  after 
you?” 

“Good  words,  friend,”  said  the  bee  (having  now  pruned  himself, 
and  being  disposed  to  he  droll),  “I’ll  give  you  my  hand  and  word 
to  come  near  your  kennel  no  more;  I was  never  in  such  a con- 
founded pickle  since  I was  born.” 

“Sirrah,”  replied  the  spider,  “if  it  were  not  for  breaking  an  old 
custom  in  our  family,  never  to  stir  abroad  against  an  enemy,  I 
should  come  and  teach  you  better  manners.” 

“I  pray  have  patience,”  said  the  bee,  “or  you’ll  spend  your 


TEEASUEES  EEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


110 


substance,  and  for  aught  I see,  you  may  stand  in  need  of  it  all 
toward  the  repair  of 'your  house.” 

“Rogue,  rogue,”  replied  the  spider,  “yet  methinks  you  should 
have  more  respect  to  a person  whom  all  the  world  allows  to  be  so 
much  your  betters.” 

“By  my  troth,”  said  the  bee,  “the  comparison  will  amount  to 
a very  good  jest;  and  you  will  do  me  a favor  to  let  me  know  the 
reasons  that  all  the  world  is  pleased  to  use  in  so  hopeful  a dispute.” 

At  this  the  spider,  having  swelled  himself  into  the  size  and 
posture  of  a disputant,  began  his  argument  in  the  true  spirit  of 
controversy,  with  resolution  to  be  heartily  scurrilous  and  angry;  to 
urge  on  his  own  reasons  without  the  least  regard  to  the  answers  or 
objections  of  his  opposite;  and  fully  predetermined  in  his  mind 
against  all  conviction. 

“Not  to  disparage  myself,”  said  he,  “by  the  comparison  with 
such  a rascal,  what  art  thou  but  a vagabond  without  house  or  home, 
without  stock  or  inheritance?  born  to  no  possession  of  your  own 
but  a pair  of  wings  and  a drone-pipe.  Your  livelihood  is  a univer- 
sal plunder  upon  nature ; a freebooter  over  fields  and  gardens ; and, 
for  the  sake  of  stealing,  will  rob  a nettle  as  easily  as  a violet. 
Whereas,  I am  a domestic  animal,  furnished  with  a native  stock 
within  myself.  This  large  castle  (to  show  my  improvements  in  the 
mathematics)  is  all  built  with  my  own  hands,  and  the  materials 
extracted  altogether  out  of  my  own  person.” 

“I  am  glad,”  answered  the  bee,  “to  hear  you  grant  at  least 
that  I come  honestly  by  my  wings  and  my  voice;  for  then,  it  seems, 
I am  obliged  to  Heaven  alone  for  my  flights  and  my  music;  and 
Providence  would  never  have  bestowed  on  me  two  such  gifts,  with- 
out designing  them  for  the  noblest  ends.  I visit  indeed  all  the 
flowers  and  blossoms  of  the  field  and  garden ; but  whatever  I collect 
thence  enriches  myself,  without  the  least  injury  to  their  beauty, 
their  smell,  or  their  taste.  Now,  for  you  and  your  skill  in  archi- 
tecture and  other  mathematics,  I have  little  to  say:  in  that  build- 
ing of  yours  there  might,  for  aught  I know,  have  been  labor  and 
method  enough;  but,  by  woeful  experience  for  us  both,  it  is  too 


120 


TEEASUEES  EEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


plaiA  the  materials  are  naught;  and  I hope  you  will  henceforth 
take  warning,  and  consider  duration  and  matter,  as  well  as 
method  and  art.  You  boast  indeed  of  being  obliged  to  no  other 
creature,  hut  of  drawing  and  spinning  out  all  from  yourself;  that 
is  to  say,  if  we  may  judge  of  the  liquor  in  the  vessel  by  what  issues 
out,  you  possess  a good  plentiful  store  of  dirt  and  poison  in  your 
breast;  and  though  I would  by  no  means  lessen  or  disparage  your 
genuine  stock  of  either,  yet  I doubt  you  are  somewhat  obliged,  for 
an  increase  of  both,  to  a little  foreign  assistance.  Your  inherent 
portion  of  dirt  does  not  fail  of  acquisitions,  by  sweepings  exhaled 
from  below;  and  one  insect  furnishes  you  with  a share  of  poison  to 
destroy  another.  So  that,  in  short,  the  question  comes  all  to  this : 
Whether  is  the  nobler  being  of  the  two,  that  which  by  a lazy  con- 
templation of  four  inches  round,  by  an  overweening  pride,  feeding 
and  engendering  on  itself,  turns  all  into  excrement  and  venom, 
producing  nothing  at  all  but  flybane  and  a cobweb;  or  that  which, 
by  a universal  range,  with  long  search,  much  study,  true  judgment, 
and  distinction  things  brings  home  honey  and  wax?” 


♦ 


LORD  LYTTON. 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


121 


LORD  LYTTON. 


DWARD  LYTTON  BULWER,  afterward  Lord  Lytton, 


was  born  in  May,  1805,  and  he  died  at  Torquay  on  the 


18th  of  January,  1873.  His  remains  now  rest  among  England’s 
honored  dead  in  Westminster  Abbey.  He  was  the  youngest 
son  of  General  Bulwer,  and  his  mother  was  of  the  ancient 
family  of  Lytton  of  Knebworth,  in  Hertfordshire.  Upon  his 
mother’s  death  in  1843,  the  novelist  succeeded  to  her  valuable 
estate,  and  took  the  name  Lytton.  While  our  author  was 
prominent  in  political  matters,  yet  we  shall  record  only  his 
literary  work. 

His  first  volume  appeared  in  1820,  the  work  having  been 
written  between  the  ages  of  thirteen  and  fifteen.  In  his  next 
appearance,  he  was  the  successful  candidate  for  a prize  poem 
in  Cambridge  University;  in  1825,  he  carried  off  a gold  medal 
for  the  best  English  poem.  In  1826  appeared  a volume  of 
miscellaneous  verse,  entitled  Weeds  and  Wild  Flowers , and 
in  1827,  a poetical  narrative,  called  O'Neill , or,  The  Rebel. 
From  this  time,  his  pen  was  never  idle.  From  the  appear- 
ance of  his  first  volume  till  his  death,  “there  was  no  reposing 
under  the  shade  of  his  laurels — no  living  upon  the  resources 
of  past  reputation ; his  foot  was  always  in  the  arena,  and  his 
shield  hung  always  in  the  list.  ” His  prominent  works  may 
be  recorded  as  follows : In  1827  appeared  Falkland , his  first 
novel;  1828,  Pelham , or,  the  Adventures  of  a Gentleman;  1828, 
The  Disowned;  1829,  Devereux,  A Novel,  much  more  finished 
than  his  former  works;  1830,  Paul  Clifford, — below  the 


122 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


average  of  his  former  works;  1831,  The  Siamese  Twins , a 
poem  satirical  of  fashion,  of  travelers,  of  politicians,  London 
notoriety,  etc.  His  political  satire  proved  almost  a failure, 
though  showing  some  vigorous  thought.  Eeturning  to  fiction, 
he  was  more  fortunate  in  1831  in  Eugene  Aram,  a Story  oj 
English  Life.  In  1833  appeared  his  England  and  the  English; 
1834,  The  Pilgrims  of  the  Rhine. 

The  Last  Days  of  Pompeii,  one  of  his  greatest  works, 
and  the  one  from  which  we  have  made  our  chief  selection, 
appeared  in  1835.  Then  followed  in  quick  succession  Rienzi , 
the  Last  of  the  Tribunes,  The  Crisis,  Ernest  Maltravers,  Alice , 
or  The  Mysteries,  Athens,  and  numerous  others,  all  worthy 
of  mention.  We  will  only  record  Night  and  Morning,  followed 
by  Day  and  Night,  Lights  and  Shadows,  Glimmer  and  Gloom. 

The  limit  of  our  sketch  forbids  further  notice  of  Lord 
Lytton’s  productions.  It  would  require  volumes  to  make 
proper  mention  of  his  writings,  with  full  notes.  “He  was  at 
the  head  of  the  English  literature,  with  the  single  exception  of 
Mr.  Carlyle ; his  works  were  popular  over  all  Europe,  and  his 
fertility  and  industry  seemed  unabated.  His  son,  the  present 
Lord  Lytton,  has,  with  a just  pride,  said  of  his  father: 
‘Whether  as  an  author,  standing  apart  from  all  literary 
cliques  and  coteries,  or  as  a politician,  never  wholly  subject 
to  the  exclusive  dictation  of  any  political  party,  he  always 
thought  and  acted  in  sympathy  with  every  popular  aspiration 
for  the  political,  social  and  intellectual  improvement  of  the 
whole  national  life.’  ” Lord  Lytton  left  an  unfinished  ro- 
mance, Pausanias,  the  Spartan,  which  was  published  by  his 
son  in  1876. 


TEEASUEES  FEOM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


128 


Last  Days  of  Pompeii. 

Lord  Lytton’s  “Historical  Romance,”  from  which  this  selection  is  taken,  is  ex- 
tremely interesting.  The  description  is  the  work  of  Lytton’s  fancy,  but  is  founded 
jpon  the  destruction  of  Herculaneum  and  Pompeii  by  an  eruption  of  Mt.  Vesuvius, 
A..  D.  79.  In  1750,  nearly  seventeen  centuries  after  its  destruction,  the  city  of  Pom- 
peii was  disinterred  from  its  silent  tomb,  all  vivid  with  undimmed  hues;  its  walls 
fresh  as  if  painted  yesterday. 

The  scene  is  located  in  the  amphitheater,  when  the  cloud  of  fire  and  destruction 
was  seen  rolling  toward  the  city.  Glaucus,  an  Athenian,  had  been  accused  of  mur- 
dering the  priest  Apaecides,  and  was  doomed  to  furnish  amusement  to  the  spectators 
by  fighting  a hungry  lion  in  the  amphitheater.  As  the  Athenian  entered  the  arena, 

All  evidence  of  fear — all  fear  itself — was  gone.  A red  and 
haughty  flush  spread  over  the  paleness  of  his  features — he  towered 
aloft  to  the  full  of  his  glorious  stature.  In  the  elastic  beauty  of  his 
limbs  and  form,  in  his  intent  but  unfrowning  brow,  in  the  high  dis- 
dain, and  in  the  indomitable  soul,  which  breathed  visibly,  which 
spoke  audibly,  from  his  attitude,  his  lip,  his  eye, — he  seemed  Vne 
very  incarnation,  vivid  and  corporeal,  of  the  valor  of  his  land — of 
the  divinity  of  its  worship — at  once  a hero  and  a god ! * * * 

Glaucus  had  bent  his  limbs  so  as  to  grfe  himself  the  firmest 
posture  at  the  expected  rush  of  the  lion,  with  his  small  and  shining 
weapon  raised  on  high,  in  the  faint  hope  that  one  well-directed 
thrust  (for  he  knew  that  he  should  have  time  but  for  one),  might 
penetrate  through  the  eye  to  the  brain  of  his  grim  foe.  But,  to  the 
unutterable  astonishment  of  all,  the  beast  seemed  not  even  aware 
of  the  presence  of  the  criminal. 

At  the  first  moment  of  its  release  it  halted  abruptly  in  the 
arena,  raised  itself  half  on  end,  snuffing  the  upward  air  with  impa- 
tient sighs ; then  suddenly  it  sprang  forward,  but  not  on  the  Athe- 
nian. At  half  speed  it  circled  round  and  round  the  space,  turning 
its  vast  head  from  side  to  side  with  an  anxious  and  perturbed  gaze, 
as  if  seeking  only  some  avenue  of  escape ; once  or  twice  it  endeav- 
ored to  leap  up  the  parapet  that  divided  it  from  the  audience,  and, 
on  failing,  uttered  rather  a baffled  howl  than  its  deep -toned  and 


124 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  FROSE  WORLD. 


kingly  roar.  It  evinced  no  sign,  either  of  wrath  or  hunger;  its  tail 
drooped  along  the  sand  instead  of  lashing  its  gaunt  sides ; and  its 
eye,  though  it  wandered  at  times  to  Glaucus  rolled  again  listlessly 
from  him.  At  length,  as  if  tired  of  attempting  to  escape,  it  crept 
with  a moan  into  its  cage,  and  once  more  laid  itself  down  to  rest. 


[Just  as  the  keeper  is  about  to  take  the  goad  to  urge  the  lion  forth  to  the  conflict, 
the  priest  Calenus  appears  and  declares  that  the  Athenian  is  innocent,  and  that  Arba- 
ces  of  Egypt  is  the  murderer  of  Apaecides.  It  was  then  thought  to  be  a miracle  that 
the  lion  had  spared  the  Athenian.  In  the  midst  of  the  confusion,  the  terrible  reality 
of  the  eruption  of  Mt.  Vesuvius  furnished  an  explanation  of  the  lion’s  conduct.  Omit- 
ting further  description',  we  now  quote  from  “ Progress  of  the  Destruction.”] 


The  cloud,  which  had  scattered  so  deep  a murkiness  over  the 
day,  had  now  settled  into  a solid  and  impenetrable  mass.  It  resem- 
bled less  even  the  thickest  gloom  of  a night  in  the  open  air  than  the 
close  and  bhnd  darkness  of  some  narrow  room.  But  in  proportion 
as  the  blackness  gathered,  did  the  lightnings  around  Vesuvius 
increase  in  their  vivid  and  scorching  glare.  Nor  was  their  horrible 
beauty  confined  to  the  usual  hues  of  fire;  no  rainbow  ever  rivaled 
their  varying  and  prodigal  dyes.  Now  brightly  blue  as  the  most 
azure  depth  of  a southern  sky — now  of  a livid  and  snake -like  green, 
darting  restlessly  to  and  fro  as  the  folds  of  an  enormous  serpent — 
now  a lurid  and  intolerable  crimson,  gushing  forth  through  the  col- 
umns of  smoke,  far  and  wide,  and  lighting  up  the  whole  city  from 
arch  to  arch — then  suddenly  dying  into  a sickly  paleness,  like  the 
ghost  of  their  own  life!  In  thj  pauses  of  the  showers,  you  heard 
the  rumbling  of  the  earth  beneath,  and  the  groaning  waves  of  the 
tortured  sea ; or  lower  still,  and  audible  but  to  the  watch  of  intensest 
fear,  the  grinding  and  hissing  murmur  of  the  escaping  gases  through 
the  chasms  of  the  distant  mountain.  Sometimes  the  cloud  appeared 
to  break  from  its  solid  mass,  and,  by  the  lightning,  to  assume  quaint 
and  vast  mimicries  of  human  or  of  monster  shapes,  striding  across 
the  gloom,  hurling  one  upon  the  other,  and  vanishing  swiftly  into 
the  turbulent  abyss  of  shade;  so  that,  to  the  eyes  and  fancies  of  the 
affrighted  wanderers,  the  unsubstantial  vapors  were  as  the  bodily 
forms  of  gigantic  foes — the  agents  of  terror  and  of  death. 


I 


TEEASUEES  EEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


125 


The  ashes  in  many  places  were  already  knee  deep ; and  the  boil- 
ing showers  which  came  from  the  steaming  breath  of  the  volcano 
forced  their  way  into  the  houses,  hearing  with  them  a strong  and 
suffocating  vapor.  In  some  places  immense  fragments  of  rock, 
hurled  upon  the  houses’  roofs,  bore  down  along  the  street  masses  of 
confused  ruin,  which  yet  more  and  more,  with  every  hour,  obstructed 
the  ./ay;  and  as  the  day  advanced,  the  motion  of  the  earth  was 
more  sensibly  felt — the  footing  seemed  to  slide  and  creep — nor  could 
chariot  or  litter  be  kept  steady,  even  on  the  most  level  ground. 

Sometimes  the  huger  stones  striking  against  each  other  as  they 
fell,  broke  into  countless  fragments,  emitting  sparks  of  fire,  which 
caught  whatever  was  combustible  within  their  reach ; and  along  the 
plains  beyond  the  city  the  darkness  was  now  terribly  relieved;  for 
several  houses,  and  even  vineyards,  had  been  set  on  flames;  and  at 
various  intervals  the  fires  rose  sullenly  and  fiercely  against  the  solid 
gloom.  To  add  to  this  partial  relief  of  the  darkness,  the  citizens 
had,  here  and  there,  in  the  more  public  places,  such  as  the  porticoes 
of  temples  and  the  entrances  to  the  forum,  endeavored  to  place  rows 
of  torches ; but  these  rarely  continued  long ; the  showers  and  the 
wind  extinguished  them,  and  the  sudden  darkness  into  which  their 
fitful  light  was  converted  had  something  in  it  doubly  impressive  on 
the  impotence  of  human  hopes,  the  lesson  of  despair. 

Frequently,  by  the  momentary  light  of  these  torches,  parties 
of  fugitives  encountered  each  other,  some  hurrying  towards  the  sea, 
others  flying  from  the  sea  back  to  the  land;  for  the  ocean  had 
retreated  rapidly  from  the  shore — an  utter  darkness  lay  over  it,  and, 
upon  its  groaning  and  tossing  waves  the  storm  of  cinders  and  rocks 
fell  without  the  protection  which  the  streets  and  roofs  afforded  to 
the  land.  Wild — haggard — ghastly  with  supernatural  fears,  these 
groups  encountered  each  other,  but  without  the  leisure  to  speak,  to 
consult,  to  advise;  for  the  showers  fell  now  frequently,  though  not 
continuously,  extinguishing  the  lights  which  showed  to  each  band 
the  death -like  faces  of  the  other,  and  hurrying  all  to  seek  refuge 
beDeatli  the  nearest  shelter.  The  whole  elements  of  civilization 
were  broken  up.  Ever  and  anon,  by  the  flickering  lights,  you  saw 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


126 

the  thief  hastening  by  the  most  solemn  authorities  of  the  law,  laden 
with,  and  fearfully  chuckling  over,  the  produce  of  his  sudden  gains. 
If,  in  the  darkness,  wife  was  separated  from  husband,  or  parent  from 
child,  vain  was  the  hope  of  reunion.  Each  hurried  blindly  and 
confusedly  on.  Nothing  in  all  the  various  and  complicated  machin- 
ery of  social  life  was  left  save  the  primal  law  of  self-preservation ! 

Through  this  awful  scene  did  the  Athenian  wade  his  way, 
accompanied  by  lone  and  the  blind  girl.  Suddenly  a rush  of  hun- 
dreds, in  their  path  to  the  sea,  swept  by  them.  Nydia  was  tom 
from  the  side  of  Glaucus,  who,  with  lone,  was  borne  rapidly  onward; 
and  when  the  crowd  (whose  forms  they  saw  not,  so  thick  was  the 
gloom)  were  gone,  Nydia  was  still  separated  from  their  side.  Glau- 
cus shouted  her  name.  No  answer  came.  They  retraced  their 
steps — in  vain : they  could  not  discover  her — it  was  evident  she  had 
been  swept  along  in  some  opposite  direction  by  the  human  current. 
Their  friend,  their  preserver,  was  lost!  And  hitherto  Nydia  had 
been  their  guide.  Her  blindness  rendered  the  scene  familiar  to  her 
alone.  Accustomed,  through  a perpetual  night,  to  thread  the  wind- 
ings of  the  city,  she  had  led  them  unerringly  toward  the  sea-shore, 
by  which  they  had  resolved  to  hazard  an  escape.  Now,  which  way 
could  they  wend?  All  was  rayless  to  them — a maze  without  a clue. 
Wearied,  despondent,  bewildered,  they,  however,  passed  along,  the 
ashes  falling  upon  their  heads,  the  fragmentary  stones  dashing  up 
in  sparkles  before  their  feet. 

“ Alas!  alas!”  murmured  lone,  “I  can  go  no  farther;  my  steps 
sink  among  the  scorching  cinders.  Fly,  dearest ! — beloved,  fly ! and 
leave  me  to  my  fate!” 

“Hush,  my  betrothed!  my  bride!  Death  with  thee  is  sweeter 
than  life  without  thee ! Yet,  whither — oh ! whither,  can  we  direct 
ourselves  through  the  gloom?  Already,  it  seems  that  we  have  made 
but  a circle,  and  are  in  the  very  spot  which  we  quitted  an  hour  ago.” 

“ Blessed  lightning ! See,  lone — see ! the  portico  of  the  Temple 
of  Fortune  is  before  us.  Let  us  creep  beneath  it;  it  will  protect  us 
from  the  showers.” 

He  caught  his  beloved  in  his  arms,  and  with  difficulty  and  labor 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


127 


gained  the  temple.  He  bore  her  to  the  remoter  and  more  sheltered 
part  of  the  portico,  and  leaned  over  her,  that  he  might  shield  her, 
with  his  own  form,  from  the  lightning  and  the  showers!  The 
beauty  and  the  unselfishness  of  love  could  hallow  even  that  dismal 
time! 

“Who  is  there?”  said  the  trembling  and  hollow  voice  of  one 
who  had  preceded  them  in  their  place  of  refuge.  “Yet,  what  mat- 
ters? the  crush  of  the  ruined  world  forbids  to  us  friends  or  foes.” 

lone  turned  at  the  sound  of  the  voice,  and,  with  a faint  shriek, 
cowered  again  beneath  the  arms  of  Glaucus ; and  he,  looking  in  the 
direction  of  the  voice,  beheld  the  cause  of  her  alarm.  Through  the 
darkness  glared  forth  two  burning  eyes — the  lightning  flashed  and 
lingered  athwart  the  temple — and  Glaucus,  with  a shudder,  per- 
ceived the  pillars; — and,  close  beside  it,  unwitting  of  the  vicinity, 
lay  the  giant  form  of  him  who  had  accosted  them — the  wounded 
gladiator,  Niger. 

That  lightning  had  revealed  to  each  other  the  form  of  beast 
and  man;  yet  the  instinct  of  both  was  quelled.  Nay,  the  hon  crept 
near  and  nearer  to  the  gladiator,  as  for  companionship;  and  the 
gladiator  did  not  recede  or  tremble.  The  revolution  of  nature 
had  dissolved  her  lighter  terrors  as  weh  as  her  wonted  ties. 

While  they  were  thus  terribly  protected,  a group  of  men  and 
women,  bearing  torches,  passed  by  the  temple.  They  were  of  the 
congregation  of  the  Nazarenes ; and  a sublime  and  unearthly  emo- 
tion had  not,  indeed,  quelled  their  awe,  but  it  had  robbed  awe  of 
fear.  They  had  long  believed,  according  to  the  error  of  the  early 
Christians  that  the  Last  Day  was  at  hand;  they  imagined  now  that 
the  Day  had  come. 

“Woe!  woe!”  mied,  in  a shrill  and  piercing  voice,  the  elder  at 
their  head.  “Behold!  the  Lord  descendeth  to  judgment!  He 
maketh  fire  come  down  from  heaven  in  the  sight  of  men!  Woe! 
Woe ! ye  strong  and  mighty ! Woe  to  ye  of  the  fasces  and  the  purple ! 
Woe  to  the  idolator  and  the  worshiper  of  the  beast!  Woe  to  ye 
who  pour  forth  the  blood  of  saints,  and  gloat  over  the  death  pangs 
of  the  sons  of  God!  Woe  to  the  harlot  of  the  sea! — woe!  woe!” 


128 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


And  with  a loud  and  deep  chorus,  the  troop  chanted  forth  along 
the  wild  horrors  of  the  air, — “Woe  to  the  harlot  of  the  sea! — woe! 
\voe ! ” 

The  Nazarenes  paced  slowly  on,  their  torches  still  flickering  in 
the  storm,  their  voices  still  raised  in  menace  and  solemn  warning, 
till,  lost  amid  the  windings  in  the  street,  the  darkness  of  the  atmos- 
phere and  the  silence  of  death  again  fell  over  the  scene. 


The  Candid  Man. 

One  bright,  laughing  day,  I threw  down  my  hook  an  hour  sooner 
than  usual,  and  sallied  out  with  a lightness  of  foot  and  exhilaration 
of  spirit,  to  which  I had  long  been  a stranger.  I had  just  sprung 
over  a stile  that  led  into  one  of  those  green,  shady  lanes  which 
makes  us  feel  that  the  old  poets  who  loved  and  lived  for  nature 
were  right  in  calling  our  island  “the  merry  England,”  when  I was 
startled  by  a short  quick  bark  on  one  side  of  the  hedge.  I turned 
sharply  round;  and,  seated  upon  the  sward  was  a man,  apparently 
of  the  peddler  profession ; a great  deal-box  was  lying  open  before 
him;  a few  articles  of  linen  and  female  dress  were  scattered  round, 
and  the  man  himself  appeared  earnestly  occupied  in  examining  the 
deeper  recesses  of  his  itinerant  warehouse.  A small  black  terrier 
flew  toward  me  with  no  friendly  growl. 

“Down,”  said  I,  “all  strangers  are  not  foes,  though  the  English 
generally  think  so.” 

The  man  hastily  looked  up;  perhaps  he  was  struck  with  the 
quaintness  of  my  remonstrance  to  his  canine  companion;  for, 
touching  his  hat  civilly,  he  said,  “The  dog,  sir,  is  very  quiet;  he 
only  means  to  give  vie  the  alarm  by  giving  it  to  you;  for  dogs  seem 
to  have  no  despicable  insight  into  human  nature,  and  know  well 
that  the  best  of  us  may  be  taken  by  surprise.” 

“You  are  a moralist,”  said  I,  not  a little  astonished  in  my  turn 
by  such  an  address  from  such  a person.  “I  could  not  have  expected 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


129 


to  stumble  upon  a philosopher  so  easily.  Have  you  any  wares  in 
your  box  likely  to  suit  me?  If  so,  I should  like  to  purchase  of  so 
moralizing  a vendor !” 

“No,  sir,”  said  the  seeming  peddler,  smiling,  and  yet  at  the 
same  time  hurrying  his  goods  into  his  box,  and  carefully  turning 
the  key.  “No, sir,  I am  only  a bearer  of  other  men’s  goods;  my 
morals  are  all  that  I can  call  my  own,  and  those  I will  sell  you  at 
your  own  price.” 

“You  are  candid,  my  friend,”  said  I,  “and  your  frankness, 
alone,  would  be  inestimable  in  this  age  of  deceit,  and  country  of 
hypocrisy.  ” 

“Ah,  sir!”  said  my  new  acquaintance,  “I  see  already  that  you 
are  one  of  those  persons  who  look  to  the  dark  side  of  things ; for 
my  part,  I think  the  present  age  the  best  that  ever  existed,  and  our 
country  the  most  virtuous  in  Europe.  ” 

“I  congratulate  you,  Mr.  Optimist,  on  your  opinions,”  quoth  I; 
“but  your  observation  leads  me  to  suppose  that  you  are  both  an 
historian  and  a traveler;  am  I right?” 

“Why,”  answered  the  box-bearer,  “I  have  dabbled  a little  in 
books,  and  wandered  not  a little  among  men.  I am  just  returned 
from  Germany,  and  am  now  going  to  my  friends  in  London.  I 
am  charged  with  this  box  of  goods.  God  send  me  the  luck  to 
deliver  it  safe ! ” 

“Amen,”  said  I;  “and  with  that  prayer  and  this  trifle  I wish 
you  a good  morning.” 

“Thank  you  a thousand  times,  sir,  for  both,”  replied  the  man, 
“but  do  add  to  your  favors  by  informing  me  of  the  right  road  to  the 
town  of .” 

“I  am  going  in  that  direction  myself;  if  you  choose  to  accom- 
pany me  part  of  the  way,  I can  insure  your  not  missing  the  rest.  ” 

“Your  honor  is  too  good!”  returned  he  of  the  box,  rising,  and 
slinging  his  fardel  across  him;  “it  is  but  seldom  that  a gentleman 
of  your  rank  will  condescend  to  walk  three  paces  with  one  of  mine. 
You  smile,  sir;  perhaps  you  think  I should  not  class  myself  among 
gentlemen ; and  yet  I have  as  good  a right  to  the  name  as  most  of 


9 


130 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


tlie  set.  I belong  to  no  trade,  I follow  no  calling;  I rove  where  1 
list,  and  rest  where  I please;  in  short,  I know  no  occupation  hut 
my  indolence,  and  no  law  hut  my  will.  Now,  sir,  may  I not  call 
myself  a gentleman  ?” 

“Of  a surety,”  quoth  I.  “You  seem  to  me  to  hold' a middle 
rank  between  a half -pay  captain  and  the  king  of  the  gypsies.” 

“You  have  it,  sir,”  rejoined  my  companion  with  a slight  laugh. 
He  was  now  by  my  side,  and  as  we  walked  on,  I had  leisure  more 
minutely  to  examine  him.  He  was  a middle-sized  and  rather 
athletic  man ; apparently  about  the  age  of  thirty-eight.  He  was 
attired  in  a dark  blue  frock-coat,  which  was  neither  shabby  nor 
new,  hut  ill-made,  and  much  too  large  and  long  for  its  present 
possessor;  beneath  this  was  a faded  velvet  waistcoat,  that  had 
formerly,  like  the  Persian  ambassador’s  tunic,  “blushed  with 
crimson  and  blazed  with  gold,”  but  which  might  now  have  been 
advantageously  exchanged  in  Monmouth  Street  for  the  lawful  sum 
of  two  shillings  and  ninepence ; under  this  was  an  inner  vest  of 
the  cashmere  shawl  pattern,  which  seemed  much  too  new  for  the 
rest  of  the  dress.  Though  his  shirt  was  of  a very  unwashed  hue,  I 
remarked,  with  some  suspicion,  that  it  was  of  a very  respectable 
fineness ; and  a pin,  which  might  he  paste,  or  could  be  diamond, 
peeped  below  a tattered  and  dingy  black  kid  stock,  like  a gipsy’s 
eye  beneath  her  hair. 

His  trousers  were  of  alight  gray,  and  the  justice  of  Providence, 
or  of  the  tailor,  avenged  itself  upon  them*  for  the  prodigal  length 
bestowed  upon  their  ill-assorted  companion,  the  coat;  for  they 
were  much  too  tight  for  the  muscular  limbs  they  concealed,  and, 
rising  far  above  the  ankle,  exhibited  the  whole  of  a thick  Welling- 
ton boot,  which  was  the  very  picture  of  Italy  upon  the  map. 

The  face  of  the  man  was  commonplace  and  ordinary — one  sees 
a hundred  such  every  day  in  Fleet  Street  or  on  ’Change, — the 
features  were  small,  irregular,  and  somewhat  flat;  yet  when  you 
looked  twice  upon  the  countenance,  there  was  something  marked 
and  singular  in  the  expression,  which  fully  atoned  for  the  common- 
ness of  the  features.  The  right  eye  turned  away  from  the  left  in 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


131 


that  watchful  squint  which  seemed  constructed  on  the  same  con 
siderate  plan  as  those  Irish  guns,  made  for  shooting  round  a corner; 
his  eyebrows  were  large  and  shaggy,  and  greatly  resembled  bramble 
bushes,  in  which  his  fox-like  eyes  had  taken  refuge.  Round  these 
vulpine  retreats  was  a labyrinthean  maze  of  those  wrinkles,  vul- 
garly called  crow’s  feet;  deep,  intricate,  and  intersected,  they  seemed 
for  all  the  world  like  the  web  of  a chancery  suit.  Singular  enough, 
the  rest  of  the  countenance  was  perfectly  smooth  and  unindented; 
even  the  lines  from  the  nostrils  to  the  corners  of  the  mouth,  usually 
so  deeply  traced  in  men  of  his  age,  were  scarcely  more  apparent 
than  in  a hoy  of  eighteen. 

His  smile  was  frank,  his  voice  clear  and  hearty,  his  address 
open,  and  much  superior  to  his  apparent  rank  of  life,  claiming 
somewhat  of  equality,  yet  conceding  a great  deal  of  respect;  hut, 
notwithstanding  all  these  certain  favorable  points,  there  was  a sly 
and  cunning  expression  in  his  perverse  and  vigilant  eye  and  all  the 
wrinkled  demesnes  in  its  vicinity,  that  made  me  mistrust  even 
while  I liked  my  companion:  perhaps,  indeed,  he  was  too  frank, 
too  familiar,  too  degage,  to  he  quite  natural.  Your  honest  men 
soon  buy  reserve  by  experience.  Rogues  are  communicative  and 
open,  because  confidence  and  openness  costs  them  nothing.  To 
finish  the  description  of  my  new  acquaintance,  I should  observe 
chat  there  was  something  in  his  countenance  which  struck  me  as 
not  wholly  unfamiliar ; it  was  one  of  those  which  we  have  not,  in 
all  human  probability,  seen  before,  and  yet  which  (perhaps  from 
their  very  commonness)  we  imagine  we  have  encountered  a hundred 
times. 

We  walked  on  briskly,  notwithstanding  the  warmth  of  the  day; 
in  fact,  the  air  was  so  pure,  the  grass  so  green,  the  laughing  noon- 
day so  full  of  the  hum,  the  motion  and  the  life  of  creation,  that 
the  feeling  produced  was  rather  that  of  freshness  and  invigoration 
than  of  languor  and  heat. 

“We  have  a beautiful  country,  sir,”  said  my  hero  of  the  box. 
“It  is  like  walking  through  a garden,  after  the  more  sterile  and 
sullen  features  of  the  continent.  A pure  mind,  sir,  loves  the  coun- 


132 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


try;  for  my  part,  I am  always  disposed  to  burst  out  in  thanks- 
giving to  Providence  when  I behold  its  works,  and,  like  the  valleys 
in  the  Psalm,  I am  ready  to  laugh  and  sing.” 

An  enthusiast,  said  I,  as  well  as  a philosopher!  perhaps, 
(and  I believe  it  likely)  I have  the  honor  of  addressing  a poet,  also?” 
Why,  sir,”  replied  the  man,  “I  have  made  verses  in  my  life; 
in  short,  there  is  little  I have  not  done,  for  I was  always  a lover  of 
variety;  but,  perhaps,  your  honor  will  let  me  return  the  suspicion, 
ire  you  not  a favorite  of  the  muse?” 

I cannot  say  that  I am,”  said  I.  “I  value  myself  only  on  my 
common  sense  the  very  antipodes  to  genius,  you  know,  according 
to  the  orthodox  belief.” 

“Common  sense!”  repeated  my  companion,  with  a singular 
and  meaning  smile,  and  a twinkle  with  his  left  eye.  “Common 
sense ! Ah,  that  is  not  my  forte , sir.  You,  I dare  say,  are  one  of 
those  gentlemen  whom  it  is  very  difficult  to  take  in,  either  passively 
or  actively,  by  appearance,  or  in  act?  For  my  part,  I have  been  a 
dupe  all  my  life — a child  might  cheat  me ! I am  the  most  unsus- 
picious person  in  the  world.” 

“Too  candid  by  half,”  thought  I.  “This  man  is  certainly  a 
rascal;  but  what  is  that  to  me?  I shall  never  see  him  again,”  and 
true  to  my  love  of  never  losing  an  opportunity  of  ascertaining  indi- 
vidual character,  I observed  that  I thought  such  an  acquaintance 
very  valuable,  especially  if  he  were  in  trade;  it  was  a pity,  there- 
fore, for  my  sake,  that  my  companion  had  informed  me  that  he  fol- 
lowed no  calling. 

Why,  sir,  said  he,  “I  am  occasionally  in  employment;  my 
nominal  profession  is  that  of  a broker.  I buy  shawls  and  hand- 
kerchiefs of  poor  countesses,  and  retail  them  to  rich  plebeians.  I 
fit  up  new-married  couples  with  linen  at  a more  moderate  rate  than 
the  shops,  and  procure  the  bridegroom  his  present  of  jewels  at 
forty  per  cent  less  than  the  jewelers;  nay,  I am  as  friendly  to  an 
intrigue  as  a marriage;  and,  when  I cannot  sell  my  jewels,  I will 
my  good  offices.  A gentleman  so  handsome  as  your  honor  may 
have  an  affair  upon  your  hands;  if  so,  you  may  rely  upon  my 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


133 


secrecy  and  zeal.  In  short,  I am  an  innocent,  good-natured  fellow, 
who  does  harm  to  no  one  or  nothing,  and  good  to  every  one  for 
something.” 

“I  admire  your  code,”  quoth  I,  “and  whenever  I want  a 
mediator  between  Venus  and  myself,  I will  employ  you.  Have 
you  always  followed  your  present  idle  profession,  or  were  you 
brought  up  to  any  other?” 

“I  was  intended  for  a silversmith,”  answered  my  friend,  “but 
Providence  willed  it  otherwise.  They  taught  me  from  childhood  to 
repeat  the  Lord’s  prayer.  Heaven  heard  me,  and  delivered  me  from 
temptation, — there  is,  indeed,  something  terribly  seducing  in  the 
face  of  a silver  spoon.” 

“Well,”  said  I,  “you  are  the  honestest  knave  that  ever  I met, 
and  one  would  trust  you  with  one’s  purse,  for  the  ingenuousness 
with  which  you  own  you  would  steal  it.  Pray,  think  you,  is 
it  probable  that  I have  ever  had  the  happiness  of  meeting  you 
before?  I cannot  help  fancying  so — as  yet  I have  never  been  in 
the  watch-house  or  the  Old  Bailey,  my  reason  tells  me  that  I must 
be  mistaken.” 

“Not  at  all,  sir,”  returned  my  worthy;  “I  remember  you  well, 
for  I never  saw  a face  like  yours  that  I did  not  remember.  I had 
the  honor  of  sipping  some  British  liquors  in  the  same  room  with 
yourself  one  evening;  you  were  then  in  company  with  my  friend, 
Mr.  Gordon.” 

“Ha!”  said  I,  “I  thank  you  for  the  hint.  I now  remember 
well,  by  the  same  token,  that  he  told  me  you  were  the  most 
ingenious  gentleman  in  England,  and  that  you  had  a happy  pro- 
pensity of  mistaking  other  people’s  possessions  for  your  own.  I 
congratulate  myself  upon  so  desirable  an  acquaintance.” 

My  friend  smiled  with  his  usual  blandness,  and  made  me  a low 
how  of  acknowledgment  before  he  resumed : 

“No  doubt,  sir,  Mr.  Gordon  informed  you  right.  I flatter 
myself  few  understand  better  than  myself  the  art  of  appropriation, 
though  I say  it  who  should  not  say  it.  I deserve  the  reputation  I 
have  acquired,  sir:  I have  always  had  ill-fortune  to  struggle  against, 


134 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


and  always  have  remedied  it  by  two  virtues — perseverance  and 
ingenuity.  To  give  you  an  idea  of  my  ill-fortune,  know  that  I have 
been  taken  up  twenty-three  times  on  suspicion;  of  my  persever- 
ance, know  that  I have  been  taken  up  justly ; and,  of  my  ingenuity, 
know  that  I have  been  twenty-three  times  let  off,  because  there  was 
not  a tittle  of  legal  evidence  against  me !” 

“I  venerate  your  talents,  Mr.  Jonson,”  replied  I,  “if  by  the 
name  of  Jonson  it  pleasetli  you  to  be  called,  although,  like  the 
heathen  deities,  I presume  that  you  have  many  titles,  whereof  some 
are  more  grateful  to  your  ears  than  others.” 

“Nay,”  answered  the  man  of  two  virtues,  “I  am  never  ashamed 
of  my  name;  indeed,  I have  never  done  anything  to  disgrace  me. 
I have  never  indulged  in  low  company  nor  profligate  debauchery; 
whatever  I have  executed  by  way  of  profession  has  been  done  in  a 
superior  and  artist-like  manner,  not  in  the  rude,  bungling  fashion 
of  other  adventurers.  Moreover,  I have  always  had  a taste  for 
polite  literature,  and  went  once  as  an  apprentice  to  a publishing 
bookseller,  for  the  sole  purpose  of  reading  the  new  works  before 
they  came  out.  In  fine,  I have  never  neglected  any  opportunity  of 
improving  my  mind;  and  the  worst  that  can  be  said  against  me  is: 
that  I have  remembered  my  catechism,  and  taken  all  possible  pains 
to  learn  and  labor  truly  to  get  my  living,  and  to  do  my  duty  in  that 
state  of  life  to  which  it  has  pleased  Providence  to  call  me.” 

“I  have  often  heard,”  answered  I,  “that  there  is  honor  among 
thieves ; I am  happy  to  learn  from  you  that  there  is  also  religion ; 
your  baptismal  sponsors  must  be  proud  of  so  diligent  a godson.” 
“They  ought  to  be,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  Jonson,  “for  I gave  them 
the  first  specimens  of  my  address;  the  story  is  long,  but,  if  you 
ever  give  me  an  opportunity,  I will  relate  it.” 

“Thank  you,”  said  I;  “meanwhile  I must  wish  you  good- 
morning ; your  way  now  lies  to  the  right.  I return  you  my  best 
thanks  for  your  condescension,  in  accompanying  so  undistinguished 
an  individual  as  myself.” 

“Oh,  never  mention  it,  your  honor,”  rejoined  Mr.  Jonson. 
“I  am  always  too  happy  to  walk  with  a gentleman  of  your 


! 


TEEASUEES  FEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD.  135 

‘ common  sense.’  Farewell,  sir;  may  we  meet  again!’’  So  saying, 
Mr.  Jonson  struck  into  his  new  road,  and  we  parted. 

I went  home,  musing  on  my  adventure,  and  delighted  with  my 
adventurer.  When  I was  about  three  paces  from  the  door  of  my 
home,  I was  accosted  in  a most  pitiful  tone,  by  a poor  old  beggar, 
apparently  in  the  last  extreme  of  misery  and  disease.  Notwith- 
standing my  political  economy,  I was  moved  into  alms-giving  by  a 
spectacle  so  wretched.  I put  my  hand  into  my  pocket,  my  purse 
was  gone;  and,  on  searching  the  other,  lo!  my  handkerchief,  my 
pocket-book,  and  a gold  locket,  which  had  belonged  to  Madame 
D’Anville,  had  vanished,  too. 

One  does  not  keep  company  with  men  of  two  virtues  and 
receive  compliments  upon  one’s  common  sense,  for  nothing! 

The  beggar  still  continued  to  importune  me. 

“Give him  some  food  and  half  a crown,”  said  1 to  my  landlady. 

Two  hours  afterward  she  came  up  to  me:  “Oh,  sir!  my  silver 

teapot — - that  villain , the  beggar!” 

A light  flashed  upon  me.  “Ah,  Mr.  Job  Jonson!  Mr.  Job 
Jonson!”  cried  I,  in  an  indescribable  rage;  “out  of  my  sight, 
woman!  out  of  my  sight!”  I stopped  short;  my  speech  failed  me. 
Never  tell  me  that  shame  is  the  companion  of  guilt!  The  sinful 
knave  is  never  so  ashamed  of  himself  as  is  the  innocent  fool  who 
suffers  by  him. 


m 


TEEASUEES  EEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


LIVER  GOLDSMITH  was  born  in  1728 ; died  1774.  He 


was  an  Irishman,  and  his  parents  were  quite  poor.  At  the 
age  of  seventeen,  Oliver  went  to  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  as 
a sizar.  In  this  school  he  had  to  pay  nothing  for  food  and 
tuition,  but  he  had  to  perform  some  menial  service.  He  ob- 
tained his  bachelor’s  degree,  and  left  the  university.  Gold- 
smith was  not  a brilliant  and  attentive  student.  He  became 
the  common  butt  of  boys  and  master,  and  was  flogged  as  a 
dunce  in  school-room.  He  tried  several  professions,  but  all 
without  success.  Eighteen  months  were  spent  in  studying 
medicine  at  Edinburgh,  then  some  time  pretending  to  be 
studying  physic  at  Leyden.  At  the  age  of  twenty-seven  he 
left  school,  with  a mere  smattering  of  medical  knowledge, 
and  with  no  property  but  his  clothes  and  flute. 

Next,  Goldsmith  commenced  his  wanderings.  He  ram- 
bled on  foot  through  Flanders,  France,  Switzerland,  Italy, 
“ playing  tunes  which  everywhere  set  the  peasantry  dancing.” 
His  flute  frequently  gained  him  meals  and  bed.  Upon  his 
return  to  England,  he  obtained  a medical  appointment  in 
the  service  of  the  East  India  Company,  but  the  appointment 
was  speedily  revoked.  At  last  he  took  a garret,  and  at 
thirty  commenced  to  toil  like  a galley  slave. 

[“  Goldsmith’s  fame  as  a poet  is  secured  by  the  Traveler, 
and  the  Deserted  Village.”]  He  wrote  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield , 
a novel  of  much  merit.  Good-natured  Man,  She  Stows  to 
Conquer,  and  many  other  good  plays  were  written  by  him 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


137 


for  the  stage.  He  also  wrote  for  the  use  of  schools,  a His- 
tory of  Rome,  History  of  England,  of  Greece,  and  a Natural 
History.  His  knowledge,  however,  was  not  accurate  enough 
to  make  his  histories  very  valuable.  Dr.  Johnson  says  of 
his  Natural  History  : “ If  he  can  tell  a horse  from  a cow, 
that  is  the  extent  of  his  knowledge  of  zoology.”  But  his 
ability  to  select  and  condense,  enabled  him  to  make  histo- 
ries that  are  models  of  arrangement  and  condensation,  and 
in  this  respect  they  are  valuable. 

Although  a sloven  in  his  dress  and  life,  yet  he  has  a 
grace  and  beauty  of  style  that  is  chaste  and  musical  and  fas- 
cinating. Goldsmith  is  one  of  the  most  beloved  and  brilliant 
of  English  writers, — full  of  tenderness  and  affection. 


138 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


Love  of  Life  and  Age. 

Age,  that  lessens  the  enjoyment  of  life,  increases  our  desire  of 
hying.  Those  dangers,  which,  in  the  vigor  of  youth,  we  had 
learned  to  despise,  assume  new  terrors  as  we  grow  old.  Our  cau- 
tion increasing  as  our  years  increase,  fear  becomes  at  last  the  pre- 
vailing passion  of  the  mind,  and  the  small  remainder  of  life  is  taken 
up  in  useless  efforts  to  keep  off  our  end,  or  provide  for  a continued 
existence. 

Strange  contradiction  in  our  nature,  and  to  which  even  the 
wise  are  liable ! If  I should  judge  of  that  part  of  life  which  lies 
before  me  by  that  which  I have  already  seen,  the  prospect  is  hideous. 
Experience  tells  me  that  my  past  enjoyments  have  brought  no  real 
felicity,  and  sensation  assures  me  that  those  I have  felt  are  stronger 
than  those  which  are  yet  to  come.  Yet  experience  and  sensation 
in  vain  persuade;  hope,  more  powerful  than  either,  dresses  out  the 
distant  prospect  in  fancied  beauty ; some  happiness  in  long  perspec- 
tive, still  beckons  me  to  pursue;  and,  like  a losing  gamester,  every 
new  disappointment  increases  my  ardor  to  continue  the  game. 

Whence,  then,  is  this  increased  love  of  life,  which  grows  upon 
us  with  our  years?  Whence  comes  it,  that  we  thus  make  greater 
efforts  to  preserve  our  existence  at  a period  when  it  becomes  scarce 
worth  the  keeping?  Is  it  that  nature,  attentive  to  the  preservation 
of  mankind,  increases  our  wish  to  live,  while  she  lessens  our  enjoy- 
ments; and,  as  she  robs  the  senses  of  every  pleasure,  equips  imag- 
ination in  the  spoil?  Life  would  he  insupportable  to  an  old  man 
who,  loaded  with  infirmities,  feared  death  no  more  than  when  in 
the  vigor  of  manhood;  the  numberless  calamities  of  decaying 
nature,  and  the  consciousness  of  surviving  every  pleasure  would  at 
once  induce  him,  with  his  own  hand,  to  terminate  the  scene  of 
misery,  but  happily  the  contempt  of  death  forsakes  him  at  a time 
when  it  could  only  be  prejudicial,  and  life  acquires  an  imaginary 
value  in  proportion  as  its  real  value  is  no  more. 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD.  139 

Chinwang  the  Chaste,  ascending  the  throne  of  China,  com- 
manded that  all  who  were  unjustly  detained  in  prison  during  the 
preceding  reigns  should  be  set  free.  Among  the  number  who  came 
to  thank  their  deliverer  on  this  occasion  there  appeared  a majestic 
old  man,  who,  falling  at  the  emperor’s  feet,  addressed  him  as  fol- 
lows : “ Great  father  of  China,  behold  a wretch  now  eighty-five 
years  old,  who  was  shut  up  in  a dungeon  at  the  age  of  twenty-two. 
I was  imprisoned  though  a stranger  to  crime,  or  without  being  con- 
fronted by  my  accusers.  I have  now  lived  in  solitude  and  darkness 
for  more  than  fifty  years,  and  am  grown  familiar  with  distress. 
As  yet,  dazzled  with  the  splendor  of  that  sun  to  which  you  have 
restored  me,  I have  been  wandering  the  streets  to  find  out  some 
friend  who  would  assist,  or  relieve,  or  remember  me;  but  my 
friends,  my  family  and  relations  are  all  dead,  and  I am  forgotten. 
Permit  me,  then,  0 Chinwang,  to  wear  out  the  wretched  remains 
of  life  in  my  former  prison ; the  walls  of  my  dungeon  are  to  me 
more  pleasing  than  the  most  splendid  palace;  I have  not  long  to 
five,  and  shall  be  unhappy  except  I spend  the  rest  of  my  days 
where  my  youth  was  passed — in  that  prison  from  whence  you  were 
pleased  to  release  me.  ” 

The  old  man’s  passion  for  confinement  is  similar  to  that  we  all 
have  for  life.  We  are  habituated  to  the  prison,  we  look  round  with 
discontent,  are  displeased  with  the  abode,  and  yet  the  length  of  our 
captivity  only  increases  our  fondness  for  the  cell.  The  trees  we 
have  planted,  the  houses  we  have  built,  or  the  posterity  we  have 
begotten,  all  serve  to  bind  us  closer  to  earth,  and  embitter  our  part- 
ing. Life  sues  the  young  like  a new  acqaintance;  the  companion, 
as  yet  unexhausted,  is  at  once  instructive  and  amusing;  its  com- 
pany pleases,  yet  for  all  this  it  is  but  little  regarded.  To  us,  who 
are  declined  in  years,  life  appears  like  an  old  friend;  its  jests  have 
been  anticipated  in  former  conversation;  it  has  no  new  story  to 
make  us  smile,  no  new  improvement  with  which  to  surprise,  yet 
still  we  love  it;  destitute  of  every  enjoyment,  still  we  love  it;  hus- 
band the  wasting  treasure  with  increasing  frugality,  and  feel  all  the 
poignancy  of  anguish  in  the  fatal  separation. 


140 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


Sir  Philip  Mordaunt  was  young,  beautiful,  sincere,  brave,  an 
Englishman.  He  had  a complete  fortune  of  his  own,  and  the  love 
of  the  king  his  master,  which  was  equivalent  to  riches.  Life  opened 
all  her  treasures  before  him,  and  promised  a long  succession  of 
future  happiness.  He  came,  tasted  of  the  entertainment,  but  was 
disgusted  even  at  the  beginning.  He  professed  an  aversion  to  liv- 
ing, was  tired  of  walking  round  the  same  circle;  had  tried  every 
enjoyment,  and  found  them  all  grow  weaker  at  every  repetition. 
“ If  life  be  in  youth  so  displeasing,”  cried  he  to  himself,  “what  will 
it  appear  when  age  comes  on  ? if  it  be  at  present  indifferent,  sure  it  will 
then  be  execrable.”  This  thought  embittered  every  reflection;  till 
at  last,  with  all  the  serenity  of  perverted  reason,  he  ended  the  debate 
with  a pistol!  Had  this  self-deluded  man  been  apprised  that  exist- 
ence grows  more  desirable  to  us  the  longer  we  exist,  he  would  have 
then  faced  old  age  without  shrinking;  he  would  have  boldly  dared 
to  live,  and  served  that  society  by  his  future  assiduity  which  he 
basely  injured  by  his  desertion. 


Happiness  in  Solitude. 

I can  hardly  tell  you,  sir,  how  concerned  I have  been  to  see 
that  you  consider  me  the  most  miserable  of  men.  The  world,  no 
doubt,  thinks  as  you  do,  and  that  also  distresses  me.  Oh!  why  is 
not  the  existence  I have  enjoyed  known  to  the  whole  universe! 
every  one  would  wish  to  procure  for  himself  a similar  lot,  peace 
would  reign  upon  the  earth,  man  would  no  longer  think  of  injuring 
his  fellows  and  the  wicked  would  no  longer  be  found,  for  none 
would  have  an  interest  in  being  wicked.  But  what,  then,  did  I enjoy 
when  I was  alone?  Myself;  the  entire  universe;  all  that  is;  all 
that  can  be;  all  that  is  beautiful  in  the  world  of  sense;  all  that  is 
imaginable  in  the  world  of  intellect.  I gathered  around  me  all  that 
could  delight  my  heart;  my  desires  were  the  limit  of  my  pleasures. 
No,  never  have  the  most  voluptuous  known  such  enjoyments;  and 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


141 


I have  derived  a hundred  times  more  happiness  from  my  chimeras 
than  they  from  their  realities. 

When  my  sufferings  make  me  measure  sadly  the  length  of  the 
night,  and  the  agitation  of  fever  prevents  me  from  enjoying  a 
smgle  instant  of  sleep,  I often  divert  my  mind  from  my  present 
state,  in  thinking  of  the  various  events  of  my  life;  and  repentance, 
sweet  recollections,  regrets,  emotions,  help  to  make  me  for  some 
moments  forget  my  sufferings.  What  period  do  you  think,  sir,  I 
recall  most  frequently  and  most  willingly  in  my  dreams?  Not  the 
pleasures  of  my  youth,  they  were  too  rare,  too  much  mingled  with 
bitterness,  and  are  now  too  distant.  I recall  the  period  of  my  seclu- 
sion, of  my  solitary  walks,  of  the  fleeting  but  delicious  days  that  I 
have  passed  entirely  by  myself,  with  my  good  and  simple  house- 
keeper, with  my  beloved  dog,  my  old  cat,  with  the  birds  of  the  fields, 
the  hinds  of  the  forest,  with  all  nature  and  her  inconceivable 
Author.  In  getting  up  before  the  sun  to  contemplate  its  rising 
from  my  garden,  when  a beautiful  day  was  commencing,  my  first 
wish*  was  that  no  letters  or  visits  might  come  to  disturb  the  charm. 
After  having  devoted  the  morning  to  various  duties,  that  I fulfilled 
with  pleasure,  because  I could  have  put  them  off  to  another  time, 
I hastened  to  dine,  that  I might  escape  from  importunate  people, 
and  insure  a longer  afternoon.  Before  one  o’clock,  even  on  the 
hottest  days,  I started  in  the  heat  of  the  sun  with  my  faithful 
Achates,  hastening  my  steps  in  the  fear  that  some  one  would  take 
possession  of  me  before  I could  escape;  but  when  once  I could 
turn  a certain  corner,  with  what  a beating  heart,  with  what  a 
flutter  of  joy,  , I began  to  breathe,  as  I felt  that  I was  safe; 
and  I said,  Here  now  am  I my  own  master  for  the  rest  of  the 
day!  I went  on  then  at  a more  tranquil  pace  to  seek  some 
wild  spot  in  the  forest,  some  desert  place,  where  nothing  indicating 
the  hand  of  man  announced  slavery  and  power — some  refuge  to 
which  I could  believe  I was  the  first  to  penetrate,  and  where  no 
wearying  third  could  step  in  to  interpose  between  Nature  and  me. 
It  was  there  that  she  seemed  to  display  before  my  eyes  an  ever  new 
magnificence.  The  gold  of  the  broom  and  the  purple  of  the  heath 


142  TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 

struck  my  sight  with  a splendor  that  touched  my  heart.  The 
majesty  of  the  trees  that  covered  me  with  their  shadow,  the  delicacy 
of  the  shrubs  that  flourished  around  me,  the  astonishing  variety  of 
the  herbs  and  flowers  that  I crushed  beneath  my  feet  kept  my  mind 
in  a continued  alternation  of  observing  and  of  admiring.  This 
assemblage  of  so  many  interesting  objects  contending  for  my  atten- 
tion, attracting  me  incessantly  from  one  to  the  other,  fostered  my 
dreamy  and  idle  humor,  and  often  made  me  repeat  to  myself,  No, 
“even  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  was  not  arrayed  hke  one  of  these.” 

The  spot  thus  adorned  could  not  long  remain  a desert  to  my 
imagination.  I soon  peopled  it  with  beings  after  my  own  heart; 
and  dismissing  opinion,  prejudices,  and  all  factitious  passions,  I 
brought  to  these  sanctuaries  of  nature  men  worthy  of  inhabiting 
them.  I formed  with  these  a charming  society,  of  which  I did  not 
feel  myself  unworthy.  I made  a golden  age  according  to  my  fancy, 
and,  filling  up  these  bright  days  with  all  the  scenes  of  my  life  that 
had  left  the  tenderest  recollections,  and  with  all  that  my  heart  still 
longed  for,  I affected  myself  to  tears  over  the  true  pleasures  .of 
humanity — pleasures  so  delicious,  so  pure,  and  yet  so  far  from 
men ! Oh,  if  in  these  moments  any  ideas  of  Paris,  of  the  age,  and 
of  my  little  author  vanity  disturbed  my  reveries,  with  what  con- 
tempt I drove  them  instantly  away,  to  give  myself  up  entirely  to 
the  exquisite  sentiments  with  which  my  soul  was  filled.  Yet,  in  the 
midst  of  all  this,  I confess  the  nothingness  of  my  chimeras  would 
sometimes  appear,  and  sadden  me  in  a moment.  If  all  my  dreams 
had  turned  to  reality,  they  would  not  have  sufficed — I should  still 
have  imagined,  dreamed,  desired.  I discovered  in  myself  an  inex- 
plicable void  that  nothing  could  have  filled — a certain  yearning  of 
my  heart  toward  another  kind  of  happiness,  of  which  I had  no 
definite  idea,  but  of  which  I felt  the  want.  Ah,  sir,  this  even 
was  an  enjoyment,  for  I was  filled  with  a lively  sense  of  what  it 
was,  and  with  a delightful  sadness  of  which  I should  not  have 
wished  to  be  deprived. 

From  the  surface  of  the  earth  I soon  raised  my  thoughts  to 
all  the  beings  of  Nature,  to  the  universal  system  of  things,  to  the 

1 

TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


143 


incomprehensible  Being  who  enters  into  all.  Then,  as  my  mind 
was  lost  in  this  immensity,  I did  not  think,  I did  not  reason,  I did 
not  philosophize.  I felt,  with  a kind  of  voluptuousness,  as  if 
bowed  down  by  the  weight  of  this  universe ; 1 gave  myself  up  with 
rapture  to  this  confusion  of  grand  ideas.  I delighted  in  imagina- 
tion to  lose  myself  in  space;  my  heart,  confined  within  the  limits 
of  the  mortal,  found  not  room ; I was  stifled  in  the  universe ; I 
would  have  sprung  into  the  infinite.  I think  that,  could  I have 
unveiled  all  the  mysteries  of  nature,  my  sensations  would  have 
been  less  delicious  than  was  this  bewildering  ecstacy,  to  which  my 
mind  abandoned  itself  without  control,  and  which,  in  the  excite- 
ment of  my  transports,  made  me  sometimes  exclaim,  “ Oh,  Great 
Being!  oh,  Great  Being!”  without  being  able  to  say  or  think  more. 

Thus  glided  on  in  a continued  rapture  the  most  charming 
days  that  ever  human  creature  passed;  and  when  the  setting  sun 
made  me  think  of  returning,  astonished  at  the  flight  of  time,  I 
thought  I had  not  taken  sufficient  advantage  of  my  day;  I fancied 
I might  have  enjoyed  it  more;  and,  to  regain  the  lost  time,  I 
said, — I will  come  back  to-morrow.  I returned  slowly  home,  my 
head  a little  fatigued,  but  my  heart  content.  I reposed  agreeably 
on  my  return,  abandoning  myself  to  the  impression  of  objects,  but 
without  thinking,  without  imagining,  without  doing  anything 
beyond  feeling  the  calm  and  the  happiness  of  my  situation.  I 
found  the  cloth  laid  upon  terrace ; I supped  with  a good  appetite, 
amidst  my  little  household.  No  feeling  of  servitude  or  dependence 
disturbed  the  good  will  that  united  us  all.  My  dog  himself  was  my 
friend,  not  my  slave.  We  had  always  the  same  wish;  but  he  never 
obeyed  me.  My  gayety  during  the  whole  evening  testified  to  my 
having  been  alone  the  whole  day.  I was  very  different  when  I had 
seen  company.  Then  I was  rarely  contented  with  others,  and  never 
with  myself.  In  the  evening  I was  cross  and  taciturn.  This 
remark  was  made  by  my  housekeeper ; and  since  she  has  told  me  so  I 
have  always  found  it  true,  when  I watched  myself.  Lastly,  after 
having  again  takerr  in  the  evening  a few  turns  in  my  garden,  or 
sung  an  air  to  my  spinnet,  I found  in  my  bed  repose  of  body  and 


144 


TEEASUEES  FEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


soul  a hundred  times  sweeter  than  sleep  itself.  These  were  the 
days  that  have  made  the  true  happiness  of  my  life — a happiness 
without  bitterness,  without  weariness,  without  regret,  and  to  which 
I would  willingly  have  limited  my  existence.  Yes,  sir,  let  such 
days  as  these  fill  up  my  eternity;  I do  not  ask  for  others,  nor  imag- 
ine that  I am  much  less  happy  in  these  exquisite  contemplations 
than  the  heavenly  spirits.  But  a suffering  body  deprives  the  mind 
of  its  liberty;  henceforth  I am  not  alone;  I have  a guest  who  impor- 
tunes me ; I must  free  myself  of  it  to  he  myself.  The  trial  that 
I have  made  of  these  sweet  enjoyments  serves  only  to  make  me 
with  less  alarm  await  the  time  when  I shall  taste  them  without 
interruption. 


Joan  of  Arc. 

What  is  to  be  thought  of  her?  What  is  to  be  thought  of  the 
poor  shepherd  girl  from  the  hills  and  forests  of  Lorraine,  that,  like  the 
Hebrew  shepherd  boy  from  the  hills  and  forests  of  Judea,  rose  suddenly 
out  of  the  quiet,  out  of  the  safety,  out  of  the  religious  inspiration, 
rooted  in  deep  pastoral  solitudes,  to  a station  in  the  van  of  armies, 
and  to  the  more  perilous  station  at  the  right  hand  of  kings?  The 
Hebrew  boy  inaugurated  his  patriotic  mission  by  an  act,  by  a vic- 
torious act,  such  as  no  man  could  deny.  But  so  did  the  girl  of 
Lorraine,  if  we  read  her  story  as  it  was  read  by  those  who  saw  her 
nearest.  Adverse  armies  bore  witness  to  the  boy  as  no  pretender' 
but  so  did  they  to  the  gentle  girl.  Judged  by  the  voices  of  all  who 
saw  them  from  a station  of  good-will , both  were  found  true  and  loyal 
to  any  promises  involved  in  their  first  acts.  Enemies  it  was  that 
made  the  difference  between  their  subsequent  fortunes.  The  boy 
rose — to  a splendor  and  a noonday  prosperity,  both  personal  and 
public,  that  rang  through  the  records  of  his  people  and  became  a by- 
word amongst  his  posterity  for  a thousand  years,  until  the  scepter 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


145 


was  departing  from  Judah.  The  poor  forsaken  girl,  on  the  contrary, 
drank  not  herself  from  that  cup  of  rest  which  she  had  secured  for 
France.  She  never  sang  together  with  them  the  songs  that  rose  in 
her  native  Domremy,  as  echoes  to  the  departing  steps  of  invaders. 
She  mingled  not  in  the  festal  dances  of  Vancouleurs  which  celebrated 
in  rapture  the  redemption  of  France.  No!  for  her  voice  was  then 
silent.  No!  for  her  feet  were  dust.  Pure,  innocent,  noble-hearted 
girl!  whom,  from  earliest  youth,  ever  I believed  in  as  full  of  truth 
and  self-sacrifice,  this  was  amongst  the  strongest  pledges  for  tliy  side, 
that  never  once — no,  not  for  a moment  of  weakness — didst  thou 
revel  in  the  vision  of  coronets  and  honors  from  man.  Coronets  for 
thee ! Oh,  no ! Honors,  if  they  come  when  all  is  over,  are  for  those 
that  share  thy  blood.  Daughter  of  Domremy,  when  the  gratitude  of 
thy  king  shall  awaken,  thou  wilt  be  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  dead. 
Call  her,  king  of  France,  but  she  will  not  hear  thee!  Cite  her  by 
thy  apparitors  to  come  and  receive  a robe  of  honor,  but  she  will  be 
found  in  contumace.  When  the  thunders  of  universal  France,  as 
even  yet  may  happen,  shall  proclaim  the  grandeur  of  the  poor  shep- 
herd girl  that  gave  up  all  for  her  country,  thy  ear,  young  shepherd 
girl,  will  have  been  deaf  for  five  centuries.  To  suffer  and  to  do — 
that  was  thy  portion  in  this  life ; to  do — never  for  thyself,  always 
for  others;  to  suffer — never  in  the  persons  of  generous  champions, 
always  in  thy  own ; that  was  thy  destiny ; and  not  for  a moment 
was  it  hidden  from  thyself.  “Life,”  thou  saidst,  “is  short,  and  the 
sleep  which  is  in  the  grave  is  long.  Let  me  use  that  life,  so  tran- 
sitory, for  the  glory  of  those  heavenly  dreams  destined  to  comfort 
the  sleep  which  is  long.”  This  poor  creature,  pure  from  every 
suspicion  of  even  a visionary  self-interest,  even  as  she  was  pure  in 
senses  more  obvious — never  once  did  this  holy  child,  as  regarding 
herself,  relax  from  her  belief  in  the  darkness  that  was  traveling  to 
meet  her.  She  might  not  prefigure  the  very  manner  of  her  death ; 
she  saw  not  in  vision,  perhaps,  the  aerial  altitude  of  the  fiery  scaffold, 
the  spectators  without  end  on  every  road  pouring  into  Rouen  as  to 
a coronation,  the  surging  smoke,  the  volleying  flames,  the  hostile 
faces  all  around,  the  pitying  eye  that  lurked  but  here  and  there 


146 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


until  nature  and  imperishable  truth  broke  loose  from  artificial 
restraints;  these  might  not  he  apparent  through  the  mists  of  the 
hurrying  future.  But  the  voice  that  called  her  to  death,  that  she 
heard  forever. 

Great  was  the  throne  of  France  even  in  those  days,  and  great 
was  he  that  sat  upon  it;  hut  well  Joanna  knew  that  not  the  throne, 
nor  he  that  sat  upon  it,  was  for  her;  hut,  on  the  contrary,  that  she 
was  for  them;  not  she  by  them,  hut  they  by  her,  should  rise  from 
the  dust.  Gorgeous  were  the  lilies  of  France,  and  for  centuries  had 
the  privilege  to  spread  their  beauty  over  land  and  sea,  until  in  another 
century  the  wrath  of  God  and  man  combined  to  wither  them;  hut 
well  Joanna  knew,  early  at  Domremy  she  had  read  that  hitter  truth, 
that  the  lilies  of  France  would  decorate  no  garland  for  her.  Flower 
nor  hud,  hell  nor  blossom  would  ever  bloom  for  her. 

On  the  Wednesday  after  Trinity  Sunday  in  1431,  being  then 
about  nineteen  years  of  age,  the  Maid  of  Arc  underwent  her  mar- 
tyrdom. She  was  conducted  before  midday,  guarded  by  eight 
hundred  spearmen,  to  a platform  of  prodigious  height,  constructed 
of  wooden  billets,  supported  by  hollow  spaces  in  every  direction, 
for  the  creation  of  air  currents.  “The  pile  struck  terror,”  says  M. 
Michelet,  “by  its  height.” 

There  would  be  a certainty  of  calumny  rising  against  her — 
some  people  would  impute  to  her  a willingness  to  recant.  No  inno- 
cence could  escape  that.  Now,  had  she  really  testified  this  willing- 
ness on  the  scaffold,  it  would  have  argued  nothing  at  all  but  the 
weakness  of  a genial  nature  shrinking  from  the  instant  approach  of 
torment.  And  those  will  often  pity  that  weakness  most,  who  in 
their  own  persons  would  yield  to  it  least.  Meantime  there  never 
was  a calumny  uttered  that  drew  less  support  from  the  recorded 
circumstances.  It  rests  upon  no  positive  testimony,  and  it  has 
weight  of  contradicting  testimony  to  stem. 

What  else  but  her  meek,  saintly  demeanor  won,  from  the  ene- 
mies that  till  now  had  believed  her  a witch,  tears  of  rapturous 
admiration?  “Ten  thousand  men,”  says  M.  Michelet  himself,  “ten 
thousand  men  wept;”  and  of  these  ten  thousand  the  majority  were 


TEEASUEES  FEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


147 


political  enemies  knitted  together  by  cords  of  superstition.  What 
else  was  it  hut  her  constancy,  united  with  her  angelic  gentleness, 
that  drove  the  fanatic  English  soldier — who  had  sworn  to  throw  a 
fagot  on  her  scaffold  as  his  tribute  of  abhorrence,  that  did  so,  that 
fulfilled  his  vow — suddenly  to  turn  away  a penitent  for  life,  saying 
everywhere  that  he  had  seen  a dove  rising  upon  wings  to  heaven 
from  the  ashes  where  she  had  stood?  What  else  drove  the  execu- 
tioner to  kneel  at  every  shrine  for  pardon  to  his  share  in  the  tragedy? 
And  if  all  this  were  insufficient,  then  I cite  the  closing  act  of  her  life 
as  valid  on  her  behalf,  were  all  other  testimonies  against  her.  The 
executioner  had  been  directed  to  apply  his  torch  from  below.  He 
did  so.  The  fiery  smoke  rose  up  in  billowy  columns.  A Domin- 
ican monk  was  then  sianding  almost  at  her  side.  Wrapped  up  in 
his  sublime  office,  he  saw  not  the  danger,  but  still  persisted  in  his 
prayers.  Even  then  when  the  last  enemy  was  racing  up  the  fiery 
stairs  to  seize  her,  «wen  at  that  moment  did  this  noblest  of  girls 
think  only  for  him,  the  one  friend  that  would  not  forsake  her,  and 
not  herself;  bidding  him  with  her  last  breath  to  care  for  his  own 
preservation,  but  to  leave  her  to  God.  That  girl,  whose  latest  breath 
ascended  in  this  sublime  expression  of  self-oblivion,  did  not  utter 
the  word  recant  either  with  her  lips  or  in  her  heart.  No,  she  did 
net, though  on**  should  rise  from  the  dead  to  swear  it. 


148 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


How  Curious  It  Is. 

When  the  life  of  Daniel  Webster — that  grand  drama — was 
about  drawing  to  a close,  he  is  represented  to  have  said,  “Life — 
Life — how  curious  it  is!”  The  word  curious  was  deemed  a strange 
one,  hut  it  expressed  the  very  thing.  How  curious  life  is,  from  the 
cradle  to  the  grave ! The  forming  mind  of  childhood,  busy  with 
the  present,  and  unable  to  guess  the  secret  of  its  own  existence,  is 
curious.  The  hopes  of  youth  are  curious,  reaching  forward  into 
the  future,  and  building  castles  in  the  perspective  for  those  who 
entertain  them,  that  will  fade  away  in.  the  sunlight  of  an  older  expe- 
rience. How  curious  is  the  first  dawning  of  love ; when  the  young 
heart  surrenders  itself  to  its  dreams  of  bliss,  illumined  with  moon- 
shine ! How  curious  it  is,  when  marriage  crowns  the  wishes,  to 
find  the  cares  of  life  hut  begun,  and  the  path  all  strewn  with  anxi- 
eties that  romance  had  depicted  as  a road  of  flowers ! How  curious 
it  is,  says  the  young  mother,  as  she  spreads  upon  her  own  the  tiny 
hand  of  her  child,  and  endeavors  to  read,  in  its  dim  lines,  the  for- 
tune there  hidden!  Curious,  indeed,  would  such  revealing  he. 
How  curious  is  the  greed  for  gain  that  controls  too  much  the  life  of 
man,  leading  him  away  after  strange  gods,  forgetting  all  the  object 
and  good  of  life  in  a chase  for  a phantom  light,  that  ends  at  last  in 
three-fold  Egyptian  darkness ! How  curious  is  the  love  of  life  that 
clings  to  the  old,  and  draws  them  back  imploringly  to  earth,  beg- 
ging for  a longer  look  at  time  and  its  frivolities,  with  eternity  and 
all  its  joys  within  their  reach!  How  curious  it  is,  when  at  length 
the  great  end  draws  nigh, — the  glazing  eye,  the  struggle,  the  groan, 
proclaiming  dissolution,  and  the  still  clay — so  still! — that  lately 
stood  by  our  side  in  the  pride  of  health  and  happiness ! How  curi- 
ous it  is  that  the  realities  of  the  immortal  world  should  be  based 
upon  the  crumbling  vanities  of  this,  and  that  the  path  to  infinite 
life  should  be  through  the  dark  shadow  of  the  grave ! How  curious 
it  is,  in  its  business  and  its  pleasures,  its  joys  and  its  sorrows,  its 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


149 


hopes  and  its  fears,  its  temptations  and  its  triumphs;  and,  as  we 
contemplate  life  in  all  its  manifestations,  we  needs  must  exclaim, 
“How  curious  it  is!” 


The  Puritans. 

The  Puritans  were  men  whose  minds  had  derived  a peculiar 
character  from  the  daily  -contemplation  of  superior  beings  and 
eternal  interests.  Not  content  with  acknowledging,  in  general 
terms,  an  over-ruling  Providence,  they  habitually  ascribed  every 
event  to  the  will  of  the  Great  Being,  for  whose  power  nothing  was 
too  vast,  for  whose  inspection  nothing  was  too  minute.  To  know 
him,  to  serve  him,  to  enjoy  him,  was  with  them  the  great  end  of 
existence.  They  rejected  with  contempt  the  ceremonious  homage 
which  other  sects  substituted  for  the  pure  worship  of  the  soul. 
Instead  of  catching  occasional  glimpses  of  the  Deity  through  an 
obscuring  veil,  they  aspired  to  gaze  full  on  the  intolerable  bright- 
ness, and  to  commune  with  him  face  to  face.  Hence  originated 
their  contempt  for  terrestrial  distinctions.  The  difference  between 
the  greatest  and  the  meanest  of  mankind  seemed  to  vanish,  when 
compared  with  the  boundless  interval  which  separated  the  whole 
race  from  him  on  whom  their  own  eyes  were  constantly  fixed. 
They  recognized  no  title  to  superiority  but  his  favor;  and,  confident 
of  that.favor,  they  despised  all  the  accomplishments  and  all  the 
dignities  of  the  world.  If  they  were  unacquainted  with  the  works 
of  philosophers  and  poets,  they  were  deeply  read  in  the  oracles  of 
God.  If  their  names  were  not  found  in  the  registers  of  heralds, 
they  felt  assured  that  they  were  recorded  in  the  Book  of  Life.  If 
their  steps  were  not  accompanied  by  a splendid  train  of  menials, 
legions  of  ministering  angels  had  charge  over  them.  Their  palaces 
were  houses  not  made  with  hands ; their  diadems  crowns  of  glory  which 
should  never  fade  away.  On  the  rich  and  the  eloquent,  on  nobles  and 
priests,  they  looked  down  with  contempt;  for  they  esteemed  them- 


150 


TREASURES  EROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


selves  rich  in  a more  precious  treasure,  and  eloquent  in  a mor$ 
sublime  language,  nobles  by  the  right  of  an  earlier  creation,  and 
priests  by  the  imposition  of  a'mightier  hand.  The  very  meanest 
of  them  was  a being  to  whose  fate  a mysterious  and  terrible  im- 
portance belonged, — on  whose  slightest  actions  the  spirits  of  light 
and  darkness  looked  with  anxious  interest, — who  had  been  destined, 
before  heaven  and  earth  were  created,  to  enjoy  a felicity  which 
should  continue  when  heaven  and  earth  should  have  passed  away. 
Events  which  short-sighted  politicians  ascribed  to  earthly  causes 
had  been  ordained  on  his  account.  For  his  sake  empires  had  risen, 
and  flourished,  and  decayed.  For  his  sake  the  Almighty  had  pro- 
claimed his  will  by  the  pen  of  the  evangelist  and  the  harp  of  the 
prophet.  He  had  been  rescued  by  no  common  deliverer  from  the 
grasp  of  no  common  foe.  He  had  been  ransomed  by  the  sweat  of 
no  vulgar  agony,  by  the  blood  of  no  earthly  sacrifice.  It  was  for 
him  that  the  sun  had  been  darkened,  that  the  rocks  had  been  rent, 
that  the  dead  had  arisen,  that  all  nature  had  shuddered  at  the 
sufferings  of  her  expiring  God. 

Thus  the  Puritan  was  made  up  of  two  different  men : the  one 
all  self-abasement,  penitence,  gratitude,  passion;  the  other  proud, 
calm,  inflexible,  sagacious.  He  prostrated  himself  in  the  dust  be- 
fore his  Maker;  but  he  set  his  foot  on  the  neck  of  his  king.  In  hi? 
devotional  retirement,  he  prayed  with  convulsions,  and  groans, 
and  tears.  He  was  half  maddened  by  glorious  or  terrible  illusions, 
He  heard  the  lyres  of  angels  or  the  tempting  whispers  of  fiends. 
He  caught  a gleam  of  the  Beatific  Vision,  or  woke  screaming  from 
dreams  of  everlasting  fire.  Like  Vane,  he  thought  himself  intrusted 
with  the  scepter  of  the  millennial  year.  Like  Fleetwood,  he  cried 
in  the  bitterness  of  his  soul  that  God  had  hid  his  face  from  him. 
But  when  he  took  his  seat  in  the  council,  or  girt  on  his  sword  fof 
war,  these  tempestuous  workings  of  the  soul  had  left  no  perceptible 
trace  behind  them.  People  who  saw  nothing  of  the  godly  hut  their 
uncouth  visages,  and  heard  nothing  from  them  hut  their  groans  and 
their  whining  hymns,  might  laugh  at  them.  But  those  had  little 
reason  to  laugh  who  encountered  them  in  the  hall  of  debate  or  on  the 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


151 


field  of  battle.  These  fanatics  brought  to  civil  and  military  affairs 
a coolness  of  judgment  and  an  immutability  of  purpose  which  some 
writers  have  thought  inconsistent  with  their  religious  zeal,  but 
which  were,  in  fact,  the  necessary  effect  of  it.  The  intensity  of 
their  feeling  on  one  subject  made  them  tranquil  on  the  other.  One 
overpowering  sentiment  had  subjected  to  itself  pity  and  hatred, 
ambition  and  fear.  Death  had  lost  its  terrors,  and  pleasure  its 
charms.  They  had  their  smiles  and  their  tears,  their  raptures  and 
their  sorrows,  but  not  for  the  things  of  this  world.  Enthusiasm  had 
made  them  stoics,  had  cleared  their  minds  from  every  vulgar  passion 
and  prejudice,  and  raised  them  above  the  influence  of  danger  and 
of  corruption.  It  sometimes  might  lead  them  to  pursue  unwise 
ends,  but  never  to  choose  unwise  means. 


Changes  of  Matter. 

The  universe  is  everywhere  in  motion.  The  atmosphere  is 
agitated  by  winds;  the  world  of  waters  is  in  perpetual  circulation; 
plants  and  animals  spring  from  the  earth  and  air  and  return  to 
them  again ; all  substances  around  us  are  undergoing  slow  trans- 
formation ; the  stony  record  of  the  strata  are  but  histories  of  past 
revolutions;  our  ponderous  earth  shoots  swiftly  along  its  orbit, 
while  the  mighty  sun,  with  all  its  attendant  planets,  is  sweeping  on 
forever  through  shoreless  space.  Nothing  around  or  within  us  is 
absolutely  at  rest. 


152 


TEEASUEES  FEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 


RW.  EMERSON  was  born  in  Boston,  May  25,  1813. 

. He  was  graduated  at  Harvard  College  in  1821,  at  the 
age  of  17.  He  taught  school  several  years,  then  entered  the 
ministry.  From  1829  to  1832  he  preached  in  Boston,  but  on 
account  of  a change  in  his  opinions  he  left  the  church  and 
ministry  and  sailed  for  Europe.  After  a year’s  absence  he 
returned  home,  took  up  his  residence  at  Concord  and  entered 
the  lecture  field.  Although  meeting  opposition,  yet  he  ad- 
vanced steadily  to  the  highest  point  of  excellence  in  his  chosen 
work.  He  discussed  a subject  in  his  lectures  until  he  had 
fully  matured  the  plan  and  matter  for  a book,  when  he 
presented  the  subject  to  the  public  in  book  form. 

The  following  arc  Emerson’s  published  volumes  : Nature , 
issued  in  1836;  two  series  of  Essays , 1841-4;  Poems,  1846; 
Miscellanies,  1849  ; Representative  Men,  1850  ; English  Traits, 
1856;  The  Conduct  of  Life,  1860;  May  Day  and  Other  Pieces, 
1867;  Society  and  Solitude,  1870.  He  edited  Parnassus  in 
1875.  His  peculiar  philosophy  is  set  forth  in  Nature  and 
The  -American  Scholar,  an  oration  published  in  1837. 

Emerson  is  not  a philosopher  solely ; he  stands  rather 
on  the  height  where  poetry  and  philosophy  meet.  He  never 
argues  and  never  pursues  with  strictness  a train  of  thought. 
He  is  a disciple  of  no  one  master — neither  of  Plato,  Kant,  or 
Comte.  He  has  established  no  school,  intellectual  or  moral. 
But  with  wonderfully  sharp  perception  he  has  looked  into  the 
vast  drama  of  the  universe,  the  mystery  of  existence,  and 


* 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 


/ 


TEEASUEES  FEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD.  153 

the  powers  of  the  soul.  With  equal  acuteness  he  has  observed 
the  manifestations  of  nature  in  plants  and  animals.  And  in 
a long  lifetime  he  has  mastered  and  assimilated  the  wisdom  of 
centuries.  His  vivid  imagination  supplies  him  with  figures 
that  are  as  brilliant  and  enduring  as  diamonds.  But  all 
he  sees  is  wTith  a poet’s  eye.  The  course  of  empires,  the 
development  of  the  arts,  the  learning  of  scholars,  the  beauty 
of  landscapes,  furnish  hints  to  his  all-absorbing  mind;  but 
the  separate  ideas  never  coalesce  into  a system.  His  essays 
are  full  of  golden  veins  and  imbedded  gems ; a whole  diction- 
ary of  quotations  could  be  made  from  them.  His  poems  have 
the  same  qualities,  and  sparkle  with  aphoristic  lines : but  his 
sense  of  melody  or  his  command  of  meter  is  limited,  and  his 
verses  sometimes  have  a simple  and  rustic  monotony  of  ca- 
dence, like  the  oft-repeated  plaint  of  a wild  bird. 


i 


u 


144 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


Beauty. 

The  poets  are  quite  right  in  decking  their  mistresses  with  the 
spoils  of  the  landscape,  flower  gardens,  gems,  rainbows,  flushes  of 
morning  and  stars  of  night,  since  all  beauty  points  at  identity,  and 
whatsoever  thing  does  not  express  to  me  the  sea  and  sky,  day  and 
night,  is  somewhat  forbidden  and  wrong.  Into  every  beautiful  ob- 
ject there  enters  somewhat  immeasurable  and  divine,  and  just  as 
much  hounded  by  outlines,  like  mountains  on  the  horizon,  as  into 
tones  of  music  or  depths  of  space.  Polarized  light  showed  the  se- 
cret architecture  of  bodies;  and  when  the  second-sight  of  the  mind 
is  opened,  now  one  color,  or  form,  or  gesture,  and  now  another, 
has  a pungency,  as  if  a more  interior  ray  had  been  emitted,  dis- 
closing its  deep  holdings  in  the  frame  of  things. 

The  laws  of  this  translation  we  do  not  know,  or  why  one 
feature  or  gesture  enchants,  why  one  word  or  syllable  intoxicates, 
but  the  fact  is  familiar  that  the  fine  touch  of  the  eye,  or  a grace  of 
manners,  or  a phrase  of  poetry,  plants  wings  at  our  shoulders ; as 
if  the  Divinity,  in  his  approaches,  lifts  away  mountains  of  obstruc- 
tion, and  designs  to  draw  a truer  line,  which  the  mind  knows  and 
owns.  This  is  that  haughty  force  of  beauty,  vis  superba  forma, 
which  the  poets  praise — under  calm  and  precise  outline,  the  im- 
measurable and  divine — beauty  hiding  all  wisdom  and  power  in  its 
calm  sky. 

All  high  beauty  has  a moral  element  in  it,  and  I find  the  an- 
tique sculpture  as  ethical  as  Marcus  Antoninus,  and  the  beauty 
ever  in  proportion  to  the  depth  of  thought.  Gross  and  impure 
natures,  however  decorated,  seem  impure  shambles;  but  character 
gives  splendor  to  youth,  and  awe  to  wrinkled  skin  and  gray  hairs. 
An  adorer  of  truth  we  cannot  choose  but  obey,  and  the  woman  who 
has  shared  with  us  the  moral  sentiments — her  locks  must  appear 
to  us  sublime.  Thus,  there  is  a climbing  scale  of  culture,  from 
the  first  agreeable  sensation  which  a sparkling  gem  or  a scarlet 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


155 


stain  affords  the  eye,  up  through  fair  outlines  and  details  of  the 
landscape,  features  of  the  human  face  and  form,  signs  and  tokens 
of  thought  and  character  in  manners,  up  to  the  ineffable  mysteries 
of  the  human  intellect.  Wherever  we  begin,  thither  our  steps  tend; 
an  ascent  from  the  joy  of  a horse  in  his  trappings  up  to  the  per- 
ception of  Newton,  that  the  globe  on  which  we  ride  is  only  a larger 
apple  falling  from  a larger  tree;  up  to  the  perception  of  Plato,  that 
globe  and  universe  are  rude  and  early  expression  of  an  all-dissolv- 
ing unity — the  first  stair  on  the  scale  to  the  temple  of  the  mind. 


Old  Age. 

When  life  has  been  well  spent,  age  is  a loss  of  what  it  can  well 
spare — muscular  strength,  organic  instincts,  gross  bulk,  and  works 
that  belong  to  these.  But  the  central  wisdom , which  was  old  in 
infancy,  is  young  in  fourscore  years,  and,  dropping  off  obstructions, 
leaves  in  happy  subjects  the  mind  purified  and  wise.  I have  heard 
that  whoever  loves  is  in  no  condition  old.  I have  heard  that  when- 
ever the  name  of  man  is  spoken  the  doctrine  of  immortality  is 
announced;  it  cleaves  to  his  constitution.  The  mode  of  it  baffles 
our  wit,  and  no  whisper  comes  to  us  from  the  other  side.  But  the 
inference  from  the  working  of  intellect,  living  knowledge,  living 
skill — at  the  end  of  life  just  ready  to  be  born — affirms  the  inspira- 
tions of  affection  and  of  the  moral  sentiment. 


156 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


Character  of  Washington. 

I think  I knew  General  Washington  intimately  and  thoroughly: 
and  were  I called  on  to  delineate  his  charater,  it  would  he  in  terms 
like  these: 

His  mind  was  great  and  powerful,  without  being  of  the  very 
first  order;  his  penetration  strong,  though  not  so  acute  as  that  of 
a Newton,  Bacon,  or  Locke;  and  as  far  as  he  saw,  no  judgment 
was  ever  sounder.  It  was  slow  in  operation,  being  little  aided  by 
invention  or  imagination,  but  sure  in  conclusion.  Hence  the  com- 
mon remark  of  his  officers,  of  the  advantage  he  derived  from 
councils  of  war,  where,  hearing  all  suggestions,  he  selected  what- 
ever was  best;  and  certainly  no  general  ever  planned  his  battles 
more  judiciously.  But  if  deranged  during  the  course  of  the  action,  if 
any  member  of  his  pian  was  dislocated  by  sudden  circumstances, 
he  was  slow  in  a re-adjustment.  The  consequence  was,  that  he 
often  failed  in  the  field,  and  rarely  against  an  enemy  in  station,  as 
at  Boston  and  York.  He  was  incapable  of  fear,  meeting  personal 
dangers  with  the  calmest  unconcern.  Perhaps  the  strongest 
feature  in  his  character  was  prudence,  never  acting  until  every  cir- 
cumstance, every  consideration  was  maturely  weighed;  refraining, 
if  he  saw  doubt;  hut,  when  once  decided,  going  through  with  his  pur- 
pose, whatever  obstacles  opposed.  His  integrity  was  the  most  pure, 
his  justice  the  most  inflexible  I have  ever  known;  no  motives  of 
interest  or  consanguinity,  of  friendship  or  hatred,  being  able  to 
bias  his  decision.  He  was,  indeed,  in  every  sense  of  the  words, 
a wise,  a good  and  great  man.  His  temper  was  naturally  irritable 
and  high-toned;  but  reflection  and  resolution  had  obtained  a firm 
and  habitual  ascendancy  over  it.  If  ever,  however,  it  broke  its 
bounds,  he  was  most  tremendous  in  his  wrath.  In  his  expenses  he 
was  honorable,  but  exact;  liberal  in  contributions  to  whatever 
promised  utility;  but  frowning  and  unyielding  on  all  visionary  pro- 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


157 


jects  and  all  unworthy  calls  on  his  charity.  His  heart  was  not 
warm  in  its  affections;  hut  he  exactly  calculated  every  man’s  value, 
and  gave  him  a solid  esteem  proportioned  to  it.  His  person,  you 
know,  was  fine;  his  stature  exactly  what  one  would  wish;  his 
deportment  easy,  erect,  and  noble;  the  best  horseman  of  his  age, 
and  the  most  graceful  figure  that  could  be  seen  on  horseback.  Al- 
though in  the  circle  of  his  friends,  where  he  might  be  unreserved 
with  safety,  he  took  a free  share  in  conversation,  his  colloquial 
talents  were  not  above  mediocrity,  possessing  neither  copiousness 
of  ideas  nor  fluency  of  words.  In  public,  when  called  on  for  a 
sudden  opinion,  he  was  unready,  short,  and  embarrassed.  Yet  he 
wrote  readily,  rather  diffusely,  in  an  easy  and  correct  style.  This 
he  had  acquired  by  conversation  with  the  world,  for  his  education 
was  merely  reading,  writing,  and  common  arithmetic,  to  which  he 
added  surveying,  at  a later  day.  His  time  was  employed  in  action 
chiefly,  reading  little,  and  that  only  in  agricultural  and  English 
history.  His  correspondence  became  necessarily  extensive,  and, 
with  journalizing,  his  agricultural  proceedings  occupied  most  of 
his  leisure  hours  within  doors.  On  the  whole,  his  character  was 
in  its  mass,  perfect;  in  nothing  bad,  in  few  points  indifferent;  and 
it  may  truly  be  said,  that  never  did  nature  and  fortune  combine 
more  perfectly  to  make  a man  great,  and  to  place  him  in  the  same 
constellation  with  whatever  worthies  have  merited  from  man  an 
everlasting  remembrance.  For  his  was  the  singular  destiny  and 
merit  of  leading  the  armies  of  his  country  successfully  through 
an  arduous  war,  for  the  establishment  of  its  independence;  of  con- 
ducting its  councils  through  the  birth  of  a government,  new  in  its 
forms  and  principles,  until  it  had  settled  down  into  a quiet  and 
orderly  train;  and  of  scrupulously  obeying  the  laws  through  the 
whole  of  his  career,  civil  and  military,  of  which  the  history  of  the 
world  furnishes  no  other  example. 


158 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


Poor  Richard. 

I have  heard  that  nothing  gives  an  author  so  great  pleasure  as 
to  find  his  works  respectfully  quoted  by  others.  Judge,  then,  how 
much  I must  have  been  gratified  by  an  incident  I am  going  to 
relate  to  you.  I stopped  my  horse,  lately,  where  a great  number 
of  people  were  collected  at  an  auction  of  merchant’s  goods.  The 
hour  of  sale  not  being  come,  they  were  conversing  on  the  badness 
of  the  times ; and  one  of  the  company  called  to  a plain,  clean  old 
man,  with  white  locks,  “Pray,  father  Abraham,  what  think  you  of 
the  times?  Will  not  those  heavy  taxes  quite  ruin  the  country? 
How  shall  we  ever  be  able  to  pay  them?  What  would  you  advise 
us  to?”  Father  Abraham  stood  up,  and  replied,  “If  you  would 
have  my  advice,  I will  give  it  you  in  short,  ‘for  a word  to  the  wise 
is  enough,’  as  poor  Richard  says.”  They  joined  in  desiring  him 
to  speak  his  mind,  and  gathering  round  him,  he  proceeded  as  fol- 
lows : — 

“Friends,”  says  he,  “the  taxes  are  indeed  very  heavy;  and,  if 
those  laid  on  by  the  Government  were  the  only  ones  we  had  to  pay, 
we  might  more  easily  discharge  them,;  but  we  have  many  others, 
and  much  more  grievous  to  some  of  us.  We  are  taxed  twice  as 
much  by  our  idleness,  three  times  as  much  by  our  pride,  and  four 
times  as  much  by  our  folly;  and  from  these  taxes  the  commission- 
ers cannot  ease  or  deliver  us  by  allowing  an  abatement.  However, 
let  us  hearken  to  good  advice,  and  something  may  be  done  for  us; 
‘God  helps  them  that  helps  themselves,’  as  poor  Richard  says. 

“I.  It  would  be  thought  a hard  Government  that  should  tax 
its  people  one -tenth  part  of  their  time  to  be  employed  in  its  ser- 
vice; but  idleness  taxes  many  of  us  much  more;  sloth,  by  bring- 
ing on  diseases,  absolutely  shortens  life.  ‘Sloth,  like  rust,  con- 
sumes faster  than  labor  wears,  while  the  used  key  is  always  bright/ 
as  poor  Richard  says.  ‘But  dost  thou  love  life,  then  do  not  squan- 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


159 


der  time,  for  that  is  the  stuff  life  is  made  of,’  as  poor  Richard  says. 
How  much  more  than  is  necessary  do  we  spend  in  sleep ; forget- 
ting that  ‘the  sleeping  fox  catches  no  poultry,  and  that  there  will 
be  sleeping  enough  in  the  grave,’  as  poor  Richard  says. 

“If  time  he  of  all  things  the  most  precious,  wasting  time  must 
he,  as  poor  Eichard  says,  ‘the  greatest  prodigality;’  since,  as  he 
elsewhere  tells  us,  ‘Lost  time  is  never  found  again;  and  what  we 
call  time  enough,  always  proves  little  enough.’  Let  us  then  up 
and  be  doing,  and  doing  to  the  purpose,  so  by  diligence  shall  we 
do  more  with  less  perplexity.  ‘Sloth  makes  all  things  difficult, 
hut  industry  all  easy,  and  he  that  riseth  late,  must  trot  all  day 
and  shall  scarce  overtake  his  business  at  night;  while  laziness 
travels  so  slowly,  that  poverty  soon  overtakes  him.  Drive  thy 
business,  let  not  that  drive  thee;  and  ‘early  to  bed,  and  early  to 
rise,  makes  a man  healthy,  wealthy,  and  wise,’  as  poor  Eichard 
says. 

“So  what  signifies  wishing  and  hoping  for  better  times?  We 
may  make  these  times  better,  if  we  bestir  ourselves.  ‘Industry 
need  not  wish,  and  he  that  lives  upon  hope  will  die  fasting.  There 
are  no  gains  without  pains;  then  help  hands  for  I have  no  lands, 
or  if  I have,  they  are  smartly  taxed.  ‘He  that  hath  a trade  hath 
an  estate ; and  he  that  hath  a calling,  hath  an  office  of  profit  and 
honor,’  as  poor  Richard  says;  but  then  the  trade  must  be  worked 
at,  and  the  calling  well  followed,  or  neither  the  estate  nor  the  office 
will  enable  us  to  pay  our  taxes.  If  we  are  industrious,  we  shall 
never  starve;  for  ‘at  the  workingman’s  house  hunger  looks  in  hut 
dares  not  enter.’  Nor  will  the  bailiff  or  the  constable  enter,  for 
‘industry  pays  debts,  while  despair  incrsaseth  them.’  What 
though  you  have  found  no  treasure,  nor  has  any  rich  relation  left 
a legacy,  ‘Diligence  is  the  mother  of  good  luck,  and  God  gives  all 
things  to  industry.  Then  plow  deep,  while  sluggards  sleep, 
and  you  shall  have  corn  to  sell  and  to  keep.’  Work  while  it  is 
called  to-day,  for  you  know  not  how  much  you  may  be  hindred 
to-morrow.  ‘One  to-day  is  worth  two  to-morrows,’  as  poor  Eich- 
ard says;  and  further,  ‘Never  leave  that  till  to-morrow  which  you 


160 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


can  do  to-day.’  If  you  were  a servant,  would  you  not  be  ashamed 
that  a good  master  should  catch  you  idle?  Are  you  then  your  own 
master?  Be  ashamed  to  catch  yourself  idle,  when  there  is  so  much 
to  he  done  for  yourself,  your  family,  your  country,  and  your  king. 
‘Handle  your  tools  without  mittens;  remember  that  ‘the  cat  in 
gloves  catches  no  mice,’  as  poor  Richard  says.  It  is  true  there  is 
much  to  be  done,  and,  perhaps,  you  are  weak-banded;  but  stick  to 
it  steadily,  and  you  will  see  great  effects;  for  ‘constant  dropping 
wears  away  stones;’  and  ‘by  diligence  and  patience  the  mouse  ate  in 
two  the  cable;’  and  ‘little  strokes  fell  great  oaks.’ 

“Methinks  I hear  some  of  you  say,  ‘Must  a man  afford  him- 
self no  leisure?’  I will  tell  thee,  my  friend,  what  poor  Richard 
says:  ‘Employ  thy  time  well,  if  thou  meanest  to  gain  leisure; 

and,  since  thou  art  not  sure  of  a minute,  throw  not  away  an  hour.’ 
Leisure  is  time  for  doing  something  useful;  this  leisure  the  diligent 
man  will  obtain,  but  the  lazy  man  never;  for,  ‘A  life  of  leisure  and 
a life  of  laziness  are  two  things.  Many,  without  labor,  would  live 
by  their  wits  only,  but  they  break  for  want  of  stock;’  whereas  in- 
dustry gives  comfort,  and  plenty,  and  respect.  ‘Ely  pleasures  and 
they  will  follow  you.  The  diligent  spinner  has  a large  shift,  and 
now  I have  a sheep  and  a cow,  everybody  bids  me  good-morrow.’ 
“H.  But  with  our  industry  we  must  likewise  be  steady,  settled 
and  careful,  and  oversee  our  own  affairs  with  our  own  eyes,  and 
not  trust  too  much  to  others,  for,  as  poor  Richard  says — 

‘I  never  saw  an  oft  removed  tree, 

Nor  yet  an  oft  removed  family, 

That  throve  so  well  as  those  that  settled  be. 

And  again,  ‘Three  removes  are  as  bad  as  a fire;’  and  again,  ‘Keep 
thy  shop,  and  thy  shop  will  keep  thee;’  and  again,  ‘If  you  would 
have  your  business  done,  go;  if  not,  send;’  and  again — 

‘He  that  by  the  plow  would  thrive, 

Himself  must  either  hold  or  drive.’ 

And  again,  ‘The  eye  of  the  master  will  do  more  work  than  both  his 
hands;’  and  again,  ‘Want  of  care  does  more  damage  than  want  of 
knowledge;’  and  again,  ‘Not  to  oversee  workmen,  is  to  leave  them 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


161 


your  purse  open.’  Trusting  too  much  to  others’  care  is  the  ruin  of 
many;  for  ‘In  the  affairs  of  this  world,  men  are  saved,  not  by 
faith,  but  by  the  want  of  it;’  but  a man’s  own  care  is  profitable, 
for  ‘If  you  would  have  a faithful  servant,  and  one  that  you  like,  serve 
yourself.  A little  neglect  may  breed  great  mischief;  for  want  of  a 
nail  the  shoe  was  lost;  for  want  of  a shoe  the  horse  was  lost;  for 
want  of  a horse  the  rider  was  lost,’  being  overtaken  and  slain  by 
the  enemy;  all  for  the  want  of  a little  care  about  a horse-shoe  nail. 

“HI.  So  much  for  industry,  my  friends,  and  attention  to 
one’s  own  business;  but  to  these  we  must  add  frugality,  if  we 
would  make  our  industry  more  certainly  successful.  A man  may, 
if  he  knows  not  how  to  save  as  he  gets,  ‘keep  his  nose  all  his  life  to 
the  grindstone,  and  die  not  worth  a groat  at  last.  A fat  kitchen 
makes  a lean  will;’  and — 

‘Many  estates  are  spent  in  the  getting, 

Since  women  for  tea  forsook  spinning  and  knitting. 

And  men  for  punch  forsook  hewing  and  splitting.’ 

‘If  you  would  be  wealthy,  think  of  saving,  as  well  as  of  getting. 
The  Indies  have  not  made  Spain  rich,  because  her  outgoes  are 
greater  than  her  incomes.’ 

“Away,  then,  with  your  expensive  folhes,  and  you  will  not  then 
have  so  much  cause  to  complain  of  hard  times,  heavy  taxes,  and 
chargeable  families;  for — 

‘Women  and  wine,  game  and  deceit, 

Make  the  wealth  small,  and  the  want  great." 

And  further,  ‘What  maintains  one  vice,  would  bring  up  two  chil- 
dren. You  may  think,  perhaps,  that  a little  tea  or  a little  punch 
now  and  then,  diet  a little  more  costly,  clothes  a little  finer,  and  a 
little  entertainment  now  and  then,  can  be  no  great  matter;  but 
remember,  ‘Many  a little  makes  a mickle.’  Beware  of  little  ex- 
penses; ‘A  small  leak  will  sink  a great  ship,’  as  poor  Bichard  says; 
and  again,  ‘Who  dainties  love,  shall  beggars  prove;’  and  moreover, 
‘Fools  make  feasts,  and  wise  men  eat  them.’  Here  you  are  all  got 
together  to  this  sale  of  fineries  and  nicknacks.  You  call  them 

goods;  but,  if  you  do  not  care,  they  will  prove  evils  to  some  of 
n 


162 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


you.  You  expect  they  will  be  sold  cheap,  and,  perhaps,  they  may 
for  less  than  they  cost;  but,  if  you  have  no  occasion  for  them,  they 
must  be  dear  to  you.  Remember  what  poor  Richard  says:  ‘Buy 
those  that  thou  hast  no  need  of,  and  ere  long  thou  shalt  sell  thy 
necessaries.’  And  again,  ‘At  a great  pennyworth  pause  a while;’ 
he  means,  that  perhaps  the  cheapness  is  apparent  only,  and  not 
real;  or  the  bargain,  by  straitening  thee  in  thy  business,  may  do 
thee  more  harm  than  good.  For  in  another  place  he  says,  ‘Many 
have  been  ruined  by  buying  good  pennyworths.’  Again,  ‘It  is  fool- 
ish to  lay  out  money  in  a purchase  of  repentance;’  and  yet  this 
folly  is  practiced  every  day  at  auctions,  for  want  of  minding  the 
Almanack.  Many  a one,  for  the  sake  of  finery  on  the  back,  have 
gone  with  a hungry  belly,  and  half  starved  their  families;  ‘silks 
and  satins,  scarlet  and  velvets  put  out  the  kitchen  fire,’  as  poor 
Richard  says.  These  are  not  the  necessaries  of  life;  they  can 
scarcely  be  called  the  conveniences ; and  yet,  only  because  they  look 
pretty,  how  many  want  to  have  them ! By  these  and  other  extrava- 
gances, the  greatest  are  reduced  to  poverty,  and  forced  to  borrow  of 
those  whom  they  formerly  despised,  but  who,  through  industry  and 
frugality,  have  maintained  their  standing;  in  which  case  it  appears 
plainly,  that  ‘A  plowman  on  his  legs  is  higher  than  a gentleman 
on  his  knees,’  as  poor  Richard  says.  Perhaps  they  have  had  a small 
estate  left  them,  which  they  knew  not  the  getting  of ; they  think, 
‘It  is  day,  and  will  never  be  night;’  ‘that  a little  to  be  spent  out  of 
so  much  is  not  worth  minding;  but  ‘Always  taking  out  of  the  meal- 
tub  and  never  putting  in  soon  comes  to  the  bottom,’  as  poor  Rich- 
ard says ; and  then  ‘When  the  well  is  dry,  they  know  the  worth  of 
water.’  But  this  they  might  have  known  before,  if  they  had  taken 
his  advice.  ‘If  you  would  know  the  value  of  money,  go  and  try  to 
borrow  some;  for  he  that  goes  a borrowing  goes  a sorrowing,’  as 
poor  Richard  says ; and,  indeed,  so  does  he  that  lends  to  such  people, 
when  he  goes  to  get  it  in  again.  Poor  Dick  further  advises,  and 
says,— 

‘Fond  pride  of  dress  is  sure  a very  curse; 

Ere  fancy  you  consult,  consult  your  purse.* 


TEEASUEES  EEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


163 


And  again,  ‘Pride  is  as  loud  a beggar  as  want,  and  a great  deal 
more  saucy.’  When  you  have  bought  one  fine  thing,  you  must 
buy  ten  more,  that  your  appearance  may  be  all  of  a piece;  but 
poor  Dick  says,  ‘It  is  easier  to  suppress  the  first  desire,  than  to 
satisfy  all  that  follow  it.’  And  it  is  as  truly  folly  for  the  poor  to 
ape  the  rich,  as  for  the  frog  to  swell,  in  order  to  equal  the  ox. 

‘Vessels  large  may  venture  more, 

But  little  boats  should  keep  near  shore.* 

“It  is,  however,  a folly  soon  punished;  for,  as  poor  Richard 
says,  ‘Pride  that  dines  on  vanity  sups  on  contempt;  pride  break- 
fasted with  plenty,  dined  with  poverty,  and  supped  with  infamy.’ 
And  after  all,  of  what  use  is  this  pride  of  appearance,  for  which 
so  much  is  risked,  so  much  is  suffered?  It  cannot  promote  health, 
nor  ease  pain;  it  makes  no  increase  of  merit  in  the  person;  it  cre- 
ates envy,  it  hastens  misfortune. 

“But  what  madness  it  must  be  to  run  in  debt  for  these  super- 
fluities! We  are  offered,  by  the  terms  of  this  sale,  six  months 
credit;  and  that,  perhaps,  has  induced  some  of  us  to  attend  it, 
because  we  cannot  spare  the  ready  money,  and  hope  now  to  be  fine 
without  it.  But,  ah ! think  what  you  do  when  you  run  in  debt ; 
you  give  to  another  power  over  your  liberty.  If  you  cannot  pay  at 
the  time,  you  will  be  ashamed  to  see  your  creditor;  you  will  be  in 
fear  when  you  speak  to  him ; you  will  make  poor,  pitiful,  sneaking 
excuses,  and,  by  degrees,  come  to  lose  your  veracity,  and  sink  into 
base, downright  lying;  for  ‘The  second  vice  is  lying;  the  first  is  run- 
ning in  debt,’  as  poor  Richard  says:  and  again,  to  the  same  pur- 
pose, ‘Lying  rides  upon  debt’s  back;’  whereas  a freeborn  English- 
man ought  not  to  be  ashamed  nor  afraid  to  see  or  speak  to  any 
man  living.  But  poverty  often  deprives  a man  of  all  spirit  and 
virtue.  ‘It  is  hard  for  an  empty  bag  to  stand  upright.’  What 
would  you  think  of  that  Prince,  or  of  that  Government,  who  should 
issue  an  edict  forbidding  you  to  dress  like  a gentleman  or  gen- 
tlewoman, on  pain  of  imprisonment  or  servitude?  Would  you  not 
say  that  you  were  free,  have  a right  to  dress  as  you  please,  and 


164 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


that  such  an  edict  would  be  a breach  of  your  privileges,  and  such 
a government  tyrannical?  and  yet  you  are  about  to  put  yourself 
under  that  tyranny,  when  you  run  in  debt  for  such  dress ! Your 
creditor  has  authority,  at  his  jdeasure,  to  deprive  you  of  your  liberty, 
by  confining  you  in  goal  for  life,  or  by  selling  you  for  a servant,  if 
you  should  not  be  able  to  pay  him.  When  you  have  got  your  bar- 
gain, you  may,  perhaps,  think  little  of  payment;  but,  as  poor  Bich- 
ard says,  ‘creditors  have  better  memories  than  debtors;  creditors 
are  a superstitious  sect,  great  observers  of  days  and  times.’  The 
day  comes  round  before  you  are  aware,  and  the  demand  is  made 
before  you  are  prepared  to  satisfy  it ; or,  if  you  bear  your  debt  in 
mind,  the  term  which  at  first  seemed  so  long,  will  as  it  lessens, 
appear  extremely  short:  Time  will  seem  to  have  added  wings  to 
his  heels  as  well  as  his  shoulders.  ‘Those  have  a short  Lent,  who 
owe  money  to  be  paid  at  Easter.’  At  present,  perhaps,  you  may 
think  yourselves  in  thriving  circumstances,  and  that  you  can  bear 
a little  extravagance  without  injury;  but, 

‘For  age  and  want  save  while  you  may, 

No  morning  sun  lasts  a whole  day.  ’ 

‘Gain  may  be  temporary  and  uncertain;  but  ever,  while  you  live, 
expense  is  constant  and  certain ; and  ‘It  is  easier  to  build  two  chim- 
neys than  to  keep  one  in  fuel,’  as  poor  Bichard  says:  so,  ‘Bather 
go  to  bed  supperless  than  rise  in  debt.’ 

‘Get  what  you  can,  and  what  you  get  hold, 

’Tis  the  stone  that  will  turn  all  your  lead  into  gold.’ 

And,  when  you  have  got  the  philosopher’s  stone,  sure  you  will  no 
longer  complain  of  bad  times,  or  the  difficulty  of  paying  taxes , 

“IV.  This  doctrine,  my  friends,  is  reason  and  wisdom;  but, 
after  all,  do  not  depend  too  much  upon  your  own  industry  and  fru- 
gality, and  prudence,  though  excellent  things;  for  they  may  all  be 
blasted  without  the  blessing  of  Heaven;  and  therefore,  ask  that 
blessing  humbly,  and  be  not  uncharitable  to  those  that  at  present 
seem  to  want  it,  but  comfort  and  help  them.  Bemember,  Job  suf- 
fered, and  was  afterward  prosperous. 

“And  now  to  conclude,  ‘Experience  keeps  a dear  school,  but 


TBEASuBES  EBOM  THE  PBOSE  WOBLD. 


165 


fools  will  learn  in  no  other,’  as  poor  Richard  says,  and  scarce  in 
that;  for  it  is  true,  ‘we  may  give  advice,  but  we  cannot  give  con- 
duct.’ However,  remember  this,  ‘They  that  will  not  be  counseled, 
cannot  be  helped:’  and  further,  that,  ‘If  you  will  not  hear  reason, 
she  will  surely  rap  your  knuckles,’  as  poor  Eichard  says.” 

Thus  the  old  gentleman  ended  his  harangue.  The  people 
heard  it,  and  approved  the  doctrine,  and  immediately  practiced  the 
contrary,  just  as  if  it  had  been  a common  sermon;  for  the  auction 
opened,  and  they  began  to  buy  extravagantly.  I found  the  good 
man  had  thoroughly  studied  Almanack,  and  digested  all  I had 
dropped  on  these  topics  during  the  course  of  twenty-five  years. 
The  frequent  mention  he  made  of  me  must  have  tired  any  one  else ; 
but  my  vanity  was  wonderfully  delighted  with  it,  though  I was  con- 
scious that  not  a tenth  part  of  the  wisdom  was  my  own  which  he 
ascribed  to  me;  but  rather  the  gleanings  that  I had  made  of  the 
sense  of  all  ages  and  nations.  However,  I resolved  to  be  the  better 
for  the  echo  of  it ; and  though  I had  at  first  determined  to  buy  stuff 
for  a new  coat,  I went  away,  resolved  to  wear  my  old  one  a little 
longer.  Reader,  if  thou  wilt  do  the  same,  thy  profit  will  be  as 
great  as  mine.  I am,  as  ever,  thine  to  serve  thee. 


166 


TREASURES  EROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


Putting  Up  Stoves. 

One  who  has  had  considerable  experience  in  the  work  of 
putting  up  stoves  says  the  first  step  to  be  taken  is  to  put  on  a very 
old  and  ragged  coat,  under  the  impression  that  when  he  gets  his 
mouth  full  cf  plaster  it  will  keep  his  shirt-bosom  clean.  Next  he 
gets  his  hands  inside  the  place  where  the  pipe  ought  to  go,  and 
blacks  his  fingers,  and  then  he  carefully  makes  a black  mark  down 
one  side  of  his  nose.  It  is  impossible  to  make  any  headway,  in 
doing  this  work,  until  this  mark  is  made  down  the  side  of  the  nose. 
Having  got  his  face  properly  marked,  the  victim  is  ready  to  begin 
the  ceremony.  The  head  of  the  family,  who  is  the  big  goose  of  the 
sacrifice,  grasps  cne  side  of  the  bottom  of  the  stove,  and  his  wife 
and  the  hired  girl  take  hold  of  the  other  side.  In  this  way  the  load 
is  started  from  the'  wood- shed  toward  the  parlor.  Going  through 
the  door,  the  head  of  the  family  will  carefully  swing  his  side  of  the 
stove  around,  and  jamb  his  thumb-nail  against  the  door-post.  This 
part  of  the  ceremony  is  never  omitted.  Having  got  the  stove  com- 
fortably in  place,  the  next  thing  is  to  find  the  legs.  Two  of  these 
are  left  inside  the  stove  since  the  Spring  before ; the  other  two  must 
he  hunted  after  for  twenty-five  minutes.  They  are  usually  found 
under  the  coal.  Then  the  head  of  the  family  holds  up  one  side  of 
the  stove  while  his  wife  puts  two  of  the  legs  in  place,  and  next  he 
holds  up  the  other  side  while  the  other  two  are  fixed,  and  one  of 
the  first  two  falls  out.  By  the  time  the  stove  is  on  its  legs  he  gets 
reckless,  and  takes  off  his  coat,  regardless  of  his  linen.  Then  he 
goes  off  for  the  pipe,  and  gets  a cinder  in  his  eye.  It  don’t  make 
any  difference  how  well  the  pipe  was  put  up  last  year,  it  will  be 
found  a little  too  short  or  a little  too  long.  The  head  of  the  family 
jambs  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  and,  taking  a pipe  under  each  arm,  goes 
to  the  tin-shop  to  have  it  fixed.  When  he  gets  back  he  steps  up  on 
one  of  the  best  parlor  chairs  to  see  if  the  pipe  fits,  and  his  wife 
makes  him  get  down  for  fear  he  will  scratch  the  varnish  off  from 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


167 


the  chair  with  the  nails  in  his  boot-heel.  In  getting  down  he  will 
surely  step  on  the  cat,  and  may  thank  his  stars  if  it  is  not  the  baby. 
Then  he  gets  an  old  chair,  and  climbs  up  to  the  chimney  again, 
to  find  that  in  cutting  the  pipe  off,  the  end  has  been  left  too  big  for 
the  hole  in  the  chimney.  So  he  goes  to  the  wood-shed  and  splits 
one  end  of  the  pipe  with  an  old  axe,  and  squeezes  it  in  his  hands  to 
make  it  smaller.  Finally  he  gets  the  pipe  in  shape,  and  finds  that 
the  stove  does  not  stand  true.  Then  himself  and  wife  and  the 
hired  girl  move  the  stove  to  the  left,  and  the  legs  fall  out  again. 
Next  it  is  to  move  to  the  right.  More  difficulty  with  the  legs. 
Moved  to  the  front  a little.  Elbow  not  even  with  the  hole  in  the 
chimney,  and  he  goes  to  the  wood- shed  after  some  little  blocks. 
While  putting  the  blocks  under  the  legs  the  pipe  comes  out  of  the 
chimney.  That  remedied,  the  elbow  keeps  tipping  over,  to  the 
great  alarm  of  the  wife.  Head  of  the  family  gets  the  dinner-table 
out,  puts  the  old  chair  on  it,  gets  his  wife  to  hold  the  chair,  and 
balances  himself  on  it,  to  drive  some  nails  into  the  ceding.  Drops 
the  hammer  onto  wife’s  head.  At  last  gets  the  nails  driven,  makes 
a wire  swing  to  hold  the  pipe,  hammers  a little  here,  pulls  a little 
there,  takes  a long  breath  and  announces  the  ceremony  completed. 
J ob  never  put  up  any  stoves.  It  would  have  ruined  his  reputation 
if  he  had. 


1GB 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


NATHANIEL,  HAWTHORNE. 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE  was  born  in  Salem,  Mass., 
July  4,  1804,  and  he  died  in  Plymouth,  N.  H.,  May  19, 
1864.  His  father  died  when  Nathaniel  was  six  years  of  age. 
At  ten,  on  account  of  feeble  health,  he  was  taken  to  live 
on  a farm  in  Maine.  He  studied  at  Bowdoin  College,  and 
received  his  degree  in  1825.  This  gifted  author  was  a class- 
mate of  our  loved  and  lamented  Longfellow.  Hawthorne’s 
first  work  was  a collection  of  stories  entitled  Twice  Told  Tales , 
which,  though  praised  by  Longfellow,  produced  no  special 
impression  upon  the  public. 

His  reputation  was  fully  established  by  the  picturesque 
and  powerful  romance,  The  Scarlet  Letter , published  in  1850. 
This  work  carried  his  name  across  the  waters,  and  gave  him 
prominence  in  England.  In  1851  appeared  The  House  of  the 
Seven  Gables.  In  1852  he  wrote  the  biography  of  his  college 
friend,  Franklin  Pierce,  then  a candidate  for  the  presidency. 

He  published  an  Italian  romance,  called  The  Marble 
Faun,  in  1860 ; and  his  impressions  of  England,  under  the 
title  of  Our  Old  Home,  in  1863.  The  Wonder  Book,  The  Snow 
Image,  Tanglewood  Tales,  and  True  Stories  from  History  and 
Biography  are  among  his  excellent  works.  Six  volumes  of 
his  Note  Books  have  been  published  since  his  death,  and 
Septimus  Felton , a posthumous  romance,  has  appeared  in  the 
[Atlantic  Monthly .]  Hawthorne’s  literary  works  fill  twenty- one 
volumes. 

In  addition  to  his  literary  work,  he  held  important  po- 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE, 


' 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


169 


sitions  under  our  government.  In  1846  he  was  appointed 
surveyor  of  the  port  of  Salem.  He  was  removed  from  office 
in  1849,  when  the  Whigs  returned  to  power.  His  college 
friend,  Franklin  Pierce,  upon  his  accession  to  the  presidency, 
gave  Hawthorne  the  place  of  consul  to  Liverpool,  a position 
worth  about  $25,000  per  year.  In  1857  Hawthorne  resigned, 
and  spent  several  years  with  his  family  in  traveling  in  France 
and  Italy. 

In  the  Spring  of  1864,  being  in  feeble  health,  he  started 
with  Ex-President  Pierce  for  a tour  in  the  White  Mountains. 
They  stopped  over  night  at  Plymouth,  N.  H.,  and  in  the 
morning  Pierce  found  his  friend,  the  subject  of  our  sketch, 
dead  in  his  bed. 

It  is  claimed  that  “he  wrote  the  cleanest  and  most  effect- 
ive English  of  any  American  who  has  ever  put  pen  to  paper.” 

Underwood,  in  his  Handbook  of  English  Literature , thus 
closes  his  sketch  of  Hawthorne:  “The  judicious  critic  in 

time  comes  to  hesitate  about  giving  estimates  of  greater  and 
less.  It  is  not  easy  to  compare  the  dissimilar,  but  convenient 
rather  to  take  refuge  in  the  saying  of  Paul : ‘One  star  differ- 
eth  from  another  star  in  glory.’  The  genius  of  Hawthorne 
was  unique ; as  the  Germans  say  of  Jean  Paul  Richter,  he 
was  Hawthorne  the  Only ; his  niche  in  the  temple  of  fame 
will  not  be  claimed  by  another.  ” 


170 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


I 

Buds  and  Bird  Voices. 


The  lilac-shrubs  under  my  study  windows  are  almost  in  leaf; 
in  two  or  three  days  more  I may  put  forth  my  hand  and  pluck  the 
topmost  bough  in  its  freshest  green.  These  lilacs  are  very  aged,  and 
have  lost  the  luxuriant  foliage  of  their  prime.  The  heart,  or  the 
judgment,  or  the  moral  sense,  or  the  taste,  is  dissatisfied  with  their 
present  aspect.  Old  age  is  not  venerable  when  it  embodies  itself 
in  lilacs,  rose  bushes,  or  any  other  ornamental  shrub;  it  seems  as 
if  such  plants,  as  they  grow  only  for  beauty,  ought  to  flourish 
always  in  immortal  youth,  or  at  least  to  die  before  their  sad  decrep- 
itude. Trees  of  beauty  are  trees  of  paradise,  and  therefore  not 
subject  to  decay  by  their  original  nature,  though  they  have  lost  that 
precious  birthright  by  being  transplanted  to  an  earth  soil.  There 
is  a kind  of  ludicrous  unfitness  in  the  idea  of  a time-stricken  and 
grandfatherly  lilac  bush.  The  analogy  holds  good  in  human  life. 
Persons  who  can  only  be  graceful  and  ornamental — who  can  give 
the  world  nothing  but  flowers — should  die  young  and  never  be  seen 
with  gray  hair  and  wrinkles,  any  more  than  the  flower  shrubs  with 
mossy  bark  and  blighted  foliage,  like  the  lilacs  under  my  window. 
Not  that  beauty  is  worthy  of  less  than  immortality;  no,  the  beau- 
tiful should  live  forever, — and  thence,  perhaps,  the  sense  of  impro- 
priety when  we  see  it  triumphed  over  by  time.  Apple-trees,  on  the 
other  hand,  grow  old  without  reproach.  Let  them  live  as  long  as 
they  may,  and  contort  themselves  into  whatever  perversity  of  shape 
they  please,  and  deck  their  withered  limbs  with  a spring-time  gau- 
diness of  pink  blossoms;  still  they  are  respectable,  even  if  they 
afford  us  only  an  apple  or  two  in  a season.  Those  few  apples, — or, 
at  all  events,  the  remembrance  of  apples  in  by-gone  years — are  the 
atonement  which  utilitarianism  inexorably  demands  for  the  privi- 
lege of  lengthened  life.  Human  flower-shrubs,  if  they  grow  old  on 
earth,  should,  besides  their  lovely  blossoms,  bear  some  kind  of  fruit 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


171 


that  will  satisfy  earthly  appetites ; else  neither  man  nor  the  deco- 
rum of  nature  will  deem  it  fit  that  the  moss  should  gather  on  them. 

One  of  the  first  things  that  strikes  the  attention  when  the  white 
sheet  of  Winter  is  withdrawn,  is  the  neglect  and  disarray  that  lay 
hidden  beneath  it.  Nature  is  not  cleanly  according  to  our  preju- 
dices. The  beauty  of  preceding  years,  now  transformed  to  brown 
and  blighted  deformity,  obstructs  the  brightening  loveliness  of  the 
present  hour.  Our  avenue  is  strewn  with  the  whole  crop  of  autumn’s 
withered  leaves.  There  are  quantities  of  decayed  branches  which 
one  tempest  after  another  has  flung  down,  black  and  rotten,  and 
one  or  two  with  the  ruin  of  a bird’s  nest  clinging  to  them.  In  the 
garden  are  the  dried  bean  vines,  the  brown  stalks  of  the  asparagus 
bed,  and  melancholy  old  cabbage,  which  were  frozen  into  the  soil 
before  their  unthrifty  cultivator  could  find  time  to  gather  them. 
How  invariably,  throughout  all  the  forms  of  life,  do  we  find  these 
intermingled  memorials  of  death ! On  the  soil  of  thought  and  in 
the  garden  of  the  heart,  as  well  as  in  the  sensual  world,  lie  withered 
leaves, — the  ideas  and  feelings  that  we  have  done  with.  There  is 
no  wind  strong  enough  to  sweep  them  away ; infinite  space  will  not 
garner  them  from  our  sight.  What  mean  they?  Why  may  we  not 
be  permitted  to  live  and  enjoy,  as  if  this  were  the  first  life  and  our 
own  the  primal  enjoyment,  instead  of  treading  always  on  these 
dry  bones  and  moldering  relics,  from  the  aged  accumulation  of 
which  springs  all  that  now  appears  so  young  and  new?  Sweet  must 
have  been  the  Spring-time  of  Eden,  when  no  earlier  year  had  strewn 
its  decay  upon  the  virgin  turf,  and  no  former  experience  had  ripened 
into  Summer  and  faded  into  Autumn  in  the  hearts  of  its  inhabitants ! 
That  was  a world  worth  living  in.  0 thou  murmurer,  it  is  out  of 
the  very  wantonness  of  such  a life  that  thou  feignest  these  idle 
lamentations.  There  is  no  decay.  Each  human  soul  is  the  first- 
created  inhabitant  of  its  own  Eden.  We  dwell  in  an  old  moss- 
covered  mansion,  and  tread  in  the  worn  foot-prints  of  the  past,  and 
have  a gray  clergyman’s  ghost  for  our  daily  and  nightly  inmate ; 
yet  all  these  outward  circumstances  are  made  less  than  visionary 
by  the  renewing  power  of  the  spirit.  Should  the  spirit  ever  lose 


/ 


172 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


this  power, — should  the  withered  leaves  and  rotten  branches,  and 
the  moss-covered  house,  and  the  ghost  of  the  gray  past  ever  become 
its  realities,  and  the  verdure  and  the  freshness  merely  its  faint 
dream, — then  let  it  pray  to  he  released  from  earth.  It  will  need  the 
air  of  heaven  to  revive  its  pristine  energies. 

What  an  unlooked-for  flight  was  this  from  our  shadowy  avenue 
of  black  ash  and  halm -of- Gilead  trees  into  the  infinite!  Now  we 
have  our  feet  again  upon  the  turf.  Nowhere  does  the  grass  spring 
up  so  industriously  as  in  this  homely  yard,  along  the  base  of  the 
stone  wall,  and  in  the  sheltered  nooks  of  the  buildings;  and  espe- 
cially around  the  southern  doorstep, — a locality  which  seems  par- 
ticularly favorable  to  its  growth,  for  it  is  already  tall  enough  to  bend 
over  and  wave  in  the  wind.  I observe  that  several  weeds,  and  most 
frequently  a plant  that  stains  the  fingers  with  its  yellow  juice — have 
survived  and  retained  their  freshness  and  sap  throughout  the  Winter. 
One  knows  not  how  they  have  deserved  such  an  exception  from  the 
common  lot  of  their  race.  They  are  now  the  patriarchs  of  the 
departed  year,  and  may  preach  mortality  to  the  present  generation 
of  flowers  and  weeds. 

Among  the  delights  of  Spring,  how  is  it  possible  to  forget  the 
birds?  Even  the  crows  were  welcome  as  the  sable  harbingers  of  a 
brighter  and  livelier  race.  They  visited  us  before  the  snow  was  off, 
but  seem  mostly  to  have  betaken  themselves  to  remote  depths  of  the 
woods,  which  they  haunt  all  summer  long.  Many  a time  shall  I 
disturb  them  there,  and  feel  as  if  I had  intruded  among  a company 
of  silent  worshipers,  as  they  sit  in  Sabbath  stillness  among  the 
tree  tops.  Their  voices,  when  they  speak,  are  in  admirable  accord- 
ance with  the  tranquil  solitude  of  a summer  afternoon ; and  resound- 
ing so  far  above  the  head,  their  loud  clamor  increases  the  religious 
quiet  of  the  scene  instead  of  breaking  it.  A crow,  however,  has  no 
real  pretentions  to  religion,  in  spite  of  his  gravity  of  mien  and  black 
attire ; he  is  certainly  a thief,  and  probably  an  infidel.  The  gulls 
are  far  more  respectable,  in  a moral  point  of  view.  These  denizens 
of  sea-beaten  rocks  and  haunters  of  the  lonely  beach  come  up  our 
inland  river  at  this  season,  and  soar  high  overhead,  flapping  their 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


173 


broad  wings  in  the  upper  sunshine.  They  are  among  the  most  pic- 
turesque of  birds,  because  they  so  float  and  rest  upon  the  air  as  to 
become  almost  stationary  parts  of  the  landscape.  The  imagination 
has  time  to  grow  acquainted  with  them ; they  have  not  flitted  away 
in  a moment.  You  go  up  among  the  clouds  and  greet  these  lofty- 
flighted  gulls,  and  repose  confidently  with  them  upon  the  sustaining 
atmosphere.  Ducks  have  their  haunts  along  the  solitary  places  of 
the  river,  and  alight  in  flocks  upon  the  broad  bosom  of  the  over- 
flowed meadows.  Their  flight  is  too  rapid  and  determined  for  the 
eye  to  catch  enjoyment  from  it,  although  it  never  fails  to  stir  up 
the  heart  with  the  sportsman’s  ineradicable  instinct.  They  have 
now  gone  farther  northward,  but  will  visit  us  again  in  Autumn. 

The  smaller  birds, — the  little  songsters  of  the  woods,  and  those 
that  haunt  man’s  dwellings  and  claim  human  friendship  by  building 
their  nests  under  the  sheltering  eaves  or  among  the  orchard  trees, — 
these  require  a touch  more  delicate  and  a gentler  heart  than  mine 
to  do  them  justice.  Their  outburst  of  melody  is  like  a brook  let 
loose  from  wintry  chains.  We  need  not  deem  it  a too  high  and  sol- 
emn word  to  call  it  a hymn  of  praise  to  the  Creator,  since  Nature, 
who  pictures  the  reviving  year  in  so  many  sights  of  beauty,  has 
expressed  the  sentiments  of  renewed  life  in  no  other  sound  save  the 
notes  of  these  blessed  birds.  Their  music,  however,  just  now,  seems 
to  be  incidental,  and  not  the  result  of  a set  purpose.  They  are  dis- 
cussing the  economy  of  life  and  love,  and  the  site  and  architecture 
of  their  Summer  residences,  and  have  no  time  to  sit  on  a twig  and 
pour  forth  solemn  hymns,  or  overtures,  operas,  symphonies,  and 
waltzes.  Anxious  questions  are  asked;  grave  subjects  are  settled  in 
quick  and  animated  debate ; and  only  by  occasional  accident,  as 
from  pure  ecstacy,  does  a rich  warble  roll  its  tiny  waves  of  golden 
sound  through  the  atmosphere.  Their  little  bodies  are  as  busy  as 
their  voices  ; they  are  in  constant  flutter  and  restlessness.  Even 
when  two  or  three  retreat  to  a tree  top  to  hold  council,  they  wag 
their  tails  and  heads  all  the  time  with  the  irrepressible  activity  of 
their  nature,  which  perhaps  renders  their  brief  span  of  life  in  real- 
ity as  long  as  the  patriarchal  age  of  sluggish  man.  The  black-birds, 


174  TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 

three  species  of  which  consort  together,  are  the  noisiest  of  all  our 
feathered  citizens.  Great  companies  of  them — more  than  the 
famous  “four-and-twenty”  whom  Mother  Goose  has  immortalized— 
congregatein  contiguous  tree  tops,  and  vociferate  with  all  the  clamor 
and  confusion  of  a turbulent  political  meeting.  Politics,  certainly, 
must  be  the  occasion  of  such  tumultuous  debates ; but  still,  unlike 
all  other  politicians,  they  instill  melody  into  their  individual  utter- 
ances, and  produce  harmony  as  a general  effect.  Of  all  bird  voices, 
none  are  more  sweet  and  cheerful  to  my  ear  than  those  of  swallows, 
in  the  dim,  sun-streaked  interior  of  a lofty  barn;  they  address  the 
heart  with  even  a closer  sympathy  than  robin -redbreast.  But,  in- 
deed, all  these  winged  people,  that  dwell  in  the  vicinity  of  home- 
steads, seem  to  partake  of  human  nature,  and  possess  the  germ,  if 
not  the  development,  of  immortal  souls.  We  hear  them  saying 
their  melodious  prayers  at  morning’s  blush  and  eventide.  A little 
while  ago,  in  the  deep  of  night,  there  came  the  lively  thrill  of  a 
bird’s  note  from  a neighboring  tree,— a real  song,  such  as  greets 
the  purple  dawn  or  mingles  with  the  yellow  sunshine.  What  could 
the  little  bird  mean  by  pouring  it  forth  at  midnight?  Probably  the 
music  gushed  out  of  the  midst  of  a dream  in  which  he  fancied  him- 
self in  paradise  with  his  mate,  but  suddenly  awoke  on  a cold, 
leafless  bough,  with  a New  England  mist  penetrating  through  his 
feathers.  That  was  a sad  exchange  of  imagination  for  reality. 


Spring. 

Thank  Providence  for  Spring ! The  earth  and  man  himself, 
by  sympathy  with  his  birthplace,  would  be  far  other  than  we  find 
them  if  life  toiled  wearily  onward  without  this  periodical  infusion 
of  the  primal  spirit.  Will  the  world  ever  be  so  decayed  that  Spring 
may  not  renew  its  greenness?  Can  man  be  so  dismally  age-stricken 
that  no  faintest  sunshine  of  his  youth  may  revisit  him  once  a year? 
It  is  impossible.  The  moss  on  our  time-worn  mansion  brightens 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD  17 6 

into  beauty ; the  good  old  pastor  who  once  dwelt  here  renewed  his 
prime,  regained  his  boyhood,  in  the  genial  breezes  of  his  ninetieth 
spring.  Alas  for  the  worn  and  heavy  soul  if,  whether  in  youth  of 
age,  it  has  outlived  its  privilege  of  Spring-time  sprightliness ! From 
such  a soul  the  world  must  hope  no  reformation  of  its  evil,  no  sym- 
pathy with  the  lofty  faith  and  gallant  struggles  of  those  who  con  - 
tend  in  its  behalf.  Summer  works  in  the  present,  and  thinks  not 
of  the  future ; Autumn  is  a rich  conservative ; Winter  has  utterly 
lost  its  faith,  and  clings  tremulously  to  the  remembrance  of  what 
has  been ; but  Spring,  with  its  outgushing  life,  is  the  true  type  of 
movement. 


Autumn  at  Concord,  Massachusetts. 

Alas  for  the  Summer ! The  grass  is  still  verdant  on  the  hills 
and  in  the  valleys;  the  foliage  of  the  trees  is  as  dense  as  ever,  and 
as  green ; the  flowers  are  abundant  along  the  margin  of  the  river, 
and  in  the  hedge-rows,  and  deep  among  the  woods;  the  days,  too., 
are  as  fervid  as  they  were  a month  ago ; and  yet,  in  every  breath 
of  wind  and  in  every  beam  of  sun  shine,  there  is  an  Autumnal  influ- 
ence. I know  not  how  to  describe  it.  Methinks  there  is  a sort  of 
coolness  amid  all  the  heat,  and  a mildness  in  the  brightest  of  the 
sunshine.  A breeze  cannot  stir  without  thrilling  me  with  the 
breath  of  Autumn ; and  I behold  its  pensive  glory  in  the  far,  golden 
gleams  among  the  huge  shadows  of  trees. 

The  flowers,  even  the  brightest  of  them,  the  golden -rod  and 
the  gorgeous  cardinals — the  most  glorious  flowers  of  the  year — have 
this  gentle  sadness  amid  their  pomp.  Pensive  Autumn  is  expressed 
in  the  glow  of  every  one  of  them.  I have  felt  this  influence  earlier 
in  some  years  than  in  others.  Sometimes  Autumn  may  be  per- 
ceived even  in  the  early  days  of  July.  There  is  no  other  feeling  like 
that  caused  by  this  faint,  doubtful,  yet  real  perception,  or  rather 


176 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


prophecy  of  the  year’s  decay,  so  deliciously  sweet  and  sad  at  the 
same  time. 

I scarcely  remember  a scene  of  more  complete  and  lovely 
seclusion  than  the  passage  of  the  river  through  this  wood  (North 
Branch).  Even  an  Indian  canoe,  in  olden  times,  could  not  have 
floated  onward  in  deeper  solitude  than  my  boat.  I have  never 
elsewhere  had  such  an  opportunity  to  observe  how  much  more 
beautiful  reflection  is  than  what  we  call  reality.  The  sky  and  the 
clustering  foliage  on  either  hand,  and  the  effect  of  sunlight  as  it 
found  its  way  through  the  shade,  giving  lightsome  hues  in  contrast 
with  the  quiet  depth  of  the  prevailing  tints — all  these  seemed  un- 
surpassably  beautiful  when  beheld  in  upper  air.  But  on  gazing 
downward,  there  they  were,  the  same  even  to  the  minutest  partic- 
ular,  yet  arrayed  in  ideal  beauty,  which  satisfied  the  spirit  incom- 
parably more  than  the  actual  scene.  I am  half  convinced  that  the 
reflection  is  indeed  the  reality,  the  real  thing  which  nature  imper- 
fectly images  to  our  grosser  sense.  At  any  rate  the  disembodied 
shadow  is  nearest  to  the  soul.  There  were  many  tokens  of  Autumn  in 
this  beautiful  picture.  Two  or  three  of  the  trees  were  actually 
dressed  in  their  coats  of  many  colors — the  real  scarlet  and  gold 
which  they  wear  before  they  put  on  mourning. 

There  is  a pervading  blessing  diffused  over  all  the  world.  I 
lookout  of  the  window,  and  think:  0 perfect  day!  0 beautiful 

world!  0 good  God!  And  such  a day  is  the  promise  of  a blissful 
eternity.  Our  Creator  would  never  have  made  such  weather,  and 
given  us  the  deep  heart  to  enjoy  it,  above  and  beyond  all  thought, 
if  he  had  not  meant  us  to  be  immortal.  It  opens  the  gates  of  heaven, 
and  gives  us  glimpses  far  inward. 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


i.77 


A Plea  For  t&e  Erring. 

s 

There  are  few  subjects  upon  which  men  are  so  likely  to  err  in 
forming  their  judgments  as  in  estimating  the  degrees  of  guilt  in- 
volved in  the  conduct  of  their  erring  and  depraved  fellow  men. 
Especially  is  this  the  case  when  the  judgments  are  passed  upon  the 
poor  and  the  outcast, — the  unhappy  persons  who  from  infancy  have 
lived  in  daily  communion  with  wretchedness  and  vice.  In  spite  of 
Cannings’s  sneer  at  the  nice  judge  who 

“ found  with  keen,  discriminating  sight, 

Black’s  not  so  black,  nor  white  so  very  white.” 

the  doctrine  thus  ridiculed  is  nevertheless  true  in  morals,  if  not  in 
physics ; and  not  to  recognize  it  is  to  incur  the  risk  of  undue  harsh- 
ness in  our  estimates  of  our  fellow  men.  If  there  is  any  one  lesson 
which  frequent  intercourse  with  them  teaches,  it  is  the  folly  of  at- 
tempting nicely  to  classify  their  characters,  so  as  to  place  them 
distinctly  among  the  sheep  or  the  goats.  Here  and  there  a man  is 
found  who  is  almost  wholly  bad,  and  another  who  is  almost  wholly 
good;  but,  in  the  infinite  majority  of  cases,  the  problem  is  so  com- 
plex as  to  defy  all  our  powers  of  analysis.  A young  men’s  debating 
society  may  easily  enough  resolve  that  some  famous  man  or  woman 
was  worthy  of  approbation  or  of  reprobation ; but  men  of  experience, 
who  have  learned  the  infinite  complexity  of  human  nature,  know 
that  a just  judgment  of  human  beings  is  not  to  be  packed  into  any 
such  summary  formula.  Even  in  judging  our  friends,  whom  we  see 
daily,  we  make  the  grossest  mistakes;  they  are  constantly  startling 
us  by  acts  which  show  us  how  little  we  know  of  the  fathomless 
depths  of  their  moral  being.  How,  then,  can  we  expect  to  judge 
accurately  of  those  who  are  utter  strangers  to  us,  and  by  what  right 
do  we  presume  to  place  them  irrevocably  in  our  moral  pigeon-holes? 

It  is  difficult  to  say  how  far  in  our  judgments  of  the  vilest  men, 
— or  those  who  seem  to  be  such, — allowance  should  be  made  for 


12 


178 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


perplexing  circumstances,  for  temptations  winch  we  have  never  ex- 
perienced, and  for  motives  which  we  can  but  partially  analyze. 
Certain  it  is  that  they  who,  from  their  earliest  years,  have  lived  al- 
ways in  affluence — who  have  never  known  the  cravings  of  a hunger 
that  they  knew  not  how  to  satisfy, — who  have  been  supplied  with  a 
constant  succession  of  innocent  pleasure  to  relieve  the  monotony 
of  life,  and  with  ah  the  appliances  of  art  to  cheat  pain  of  its 
sting, — have  but  a faint  conception  of  the  privations  and  anxieties, 
the  irritating  and  maddening  thoughts,  that  torture  the  victim  of 
poverty,  and  drive  him,  with  an  impulse  dreadfully  strong,  to  deeds 
of  darkness  and  blood. 

Well  did  Maggie  Mucklebacket,  in  Scott’s  novel,  retort  to  the 
Laird  of  Monkbarns,  when  he  expressed  a hope  that  the  distilleries 
would  never  work  again:  ”Ay,  it  is  easy  for  your  honor,  and  the 
like  o’  you  gentle  folks,  to  say  sae,  that  hae  stouth  and  routh  and 
fire  and  fending,  and  meat  and  claith,  and  sit  dry  and  canny  by  the 
fireside;  hut  an  ye  wanted  fere,  and  meat  and  dry  claise,  and  were 
deeing  o’  cauld,  and  had  a sair  heart  into  the  bargain,  which  is 
warst  ava,  wi’  just  tippence  in  your  pouch,  wadna  ye  he  glad  to  buy 
a dram  wi’t,  to  he  eilding,  and  claise,  and  a supper,  and  heart’s 
ease  into  the  bargain,  till  the  morn’s  morning?”  We  may  not  ad- 
mit the  strict  logic  of  this  appeal,  for  the  dram  is  too  often  the  cause, 
as  well  as  the  effect,  of  the  'absence  of  fire,  and  meat,  and  heart’s 
ease ; hut  the  fact  upon  which  the  poly-petticoated  philosopher  insists 
so  pathetically  is  unquestionably  a key,  not  only  to  nine-tenths  of 
the  vices,  hut  also  to  many  of  the  darkest  crimes,  that  stain  the  an- 
nals of  the  poor. 

Easy,  indeed,  is  it,  for  such  persons  as  Maggie  describes, — those 
for  whom  a serene  and  quiet  life  has  been  provided  by  fortune, — 
who  are  free  from  all  harrassing  cares, — their  livelier  and  more 
errant  feelings  all  settled  down  into  torpidity, — with  not  even  any 
tastes  to  lead  astray, — nothing,  in  short,  to  do  hut  to  live  a life 
of  substantial  comfort  within  the  easy  hounds  which  worldly  wis- 
dom prescribes, — easy  is  it  for  all  these  sleek  and  well-fed  members 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


179 


of  the  venerable  corps  of  “excessively  good  and  rigidly  righteous 
people,”  as  Burns  calls  them, — 

“Whose  life  is  like  a weel  gaun  mill,— 

Supplied  \vi’  store  o’  water, 

The  heapet  happer’s  ebbing  still, 

And  still  the  clap  plays  clatter,”— 

to  abstain  from  vice  and  crime ; for  were  they  to  be  guilty  of  the 
outrageous  sins  of  the  distressed  and  tempted,  they  would  he  mon- 
sters indeed.  But,  before  such  sit  in  judgment  on  their  fellow 
men, 

“Their  dousie  tricks,  their  black  mistakes, 

Their  failings  and  mischances,” 

or  boast  of  keeping  their  own  feet  within  the  prescribed  bounds  of 
virtue,  would  they  not  do  well  to  ask  themselves  how  many  inward 
struggles  this  negative  merit  has  cost  them,  or  whether  their  cir- 
cumstances were  not  such  as  to  render  temptation  to  any  glaring 
error  impossible? 

It  is  said  that  John  Bunyan,  seeing  a drunkard  staggering 
along  the  street,  exclaimed,  “There,  but  for  the  grace  of  God,  goes 
John  Bunyan!”  “Tolerance,”  says  Goethe,  “comes  with  age.  I 
see  no  fault  committed  that  I myself  could  not  have  committed  at 
some  time  or  other.”  Truly,  we  have  but  to  look  into  our  own 
hearts  to  find  the  germ  of  many  a crime  which  only  our  more  fa- 
vored circumstances  have  prevented  us  from  committing,  and  would 
we  ponder  on  this  thought  with  a wise  humility,  it  might  teach  us, 
not  to  palliate  or  excuse,  but  “more  gently  to  scan  our  fellow  man,” 
— to  judge  mercifully  of  the  sinner  while  we  hate  the  sin, — and, 
above  all,  meekly  to  thank  God , not  that  we  are  better  than  other 
men,  but  that  we,  too,  have  not  been  brought  into  temptations  too 
fiery  for  our  strength.  “No  man,”  says  the  large-hearted  poet, 
Bums,  “can  say  in  what  degree  any  other  persons,  besides  himself, 
can  be  with  strict  justice  called  wicked.  Let  any  of  the  strictest 
character  for  regularity  of  conduct  among  us  examine  impartially 
how  many  vices  he  has  not  been  guilty  of,  not  from  any  care  or 
vigilance,  but  for  want  of  opportunity,  or  some  accidental  circum- 
stance intervening;  how  many  of  the  weaknesses  of  mankind  he  has 


180 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


escaped  because  be  was  out  of  the  line  of  such  temptation;  and 
what  often,  if  not  always,  weighs  more  than  all  the  rest,  how  much 
he  is  indebted  to  the  world’s  good  opinion,  because  the  world  does 
not  know  all;  I say,  any  man  who  can  thus  think,  may  view  the 
faults  and  crimes  of  mankind  around  him  with  a brother’s  eye.” 

It  was  in  a land  of  harsh  moralists,  and  in  an  age  when  little 
pity  was  shown  to  the  erring,  that  Burns  wrote  these  words ; but, 
though  in  these  days  a great  advance  has  been  made,  it  is  doubtful 
if  we  yet  have  sufficient  sympathy  for  those  who  stray  from  the 
paths  of  virtue.  We  need  again  and  again  to  be  reminded  that  the 
bad  are  not  all  bad;  that  there  is  “a  soul  cf  goodness  in  things  evil;” 
and  that  in  balancing  the  ledger  of  human  conduct,  we  should 
make  a large  subtraction  from  the  bad  man’s  debit  side,  as  from  the 
good  man’s  credit  side,  of  the  account.  Not  more  true  is  it  that 
there  are  many  “mute,  inglorious  Miltons,”  or  “village  Hampdens,” 
whose  lofty  intellectual  powers,  like  the  music  of  an  untouched  in- 
strument, have  remained  dormant  for  the  want  of  circumstances  to 
call  them  forth,  than  that  there  sleep  in  the  breast  of  many  an  in- 
nocent man  impulses  and  tendencies  of  a wicked  character,  which 
need  but  the  breath  of  occasion  to  start  them  into  a giant  life.  The 
pregnant  story  of  Hazel  furnishes  not  the  only  instance  of  a nature 
which,  in  ordinary  circumstances,  was  shocked  at  the  very  imputa- 
tion of  wrong,  and  yet,  when  clothed  with  despotic  authority, 
exhibited  all  the  odious  features  of  the  oppressor  and  the  tyrant. 
“Nature,”  says  the  sententious  Bacon,  “may  be  buried  a great  while, 
and  yet  revive  on  the  occasion  of  temptation ; like  as  it  was  with 
iEsop’s  damsel,  turned  from  a cat  to  a woman,  who  sat  very  de- 
murely at  the  board’s  end  till  a mouse  ran  before  her.” 

It  is  a striking  fact,  noted  by  Sir  Arthur  Helps,  that  the  man  in  all 
England  whose  duty  it  is  to  know  most  about  crime  has  been  heard 
to  say  that  he  finds  more  and  more  to  excuse  in  men,  and  thinks 
better  of  human  nature,  even  after  tracking  it  through  the  most 
perverse  and  intolerable  courses.  It  is  the  man  who  has  seen  most 
of  his  fellows,  who  is  most  tolerant  of  his  fellow  man.  In  the  great 
Battle  of  Life,  we  may  see  many  a fellow  creature  fall  beneath  a 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD 


181 


temptation  which  from  our  own  shield  would  have  glanced  harmless ; 
but  let  us  reflect  that,  though  we  might  have  been  adamant  to  this, 
there  are  a thousand  other  darts  of  Satan,  better  suited  to  our  na- 
tures, by  which,  though  pressing  with  less  crushing  force,  we  might 
have  perished  without  a struggle.  Only  the  All-Seeing  Eye  can 
discern  how  far  the  virtues  of  any  one  are  owing  to  a happy  tem- 
perament, or  from  how  many  vices  he  abstains,  not  from  any  care 
or  vigilance,  but,  as  Burns  says,  “for  want  of  opportunity,  or  some 
accidental  circumstances  intervening.” 

When  Henry  Martyn  was  in  college  he  was  such  a slave  to  an- 
ger that  he  one  day  hurled  a knife  with  all  his  force  at  a fellow 
student,  which  might  have  killed  or  fearfully  mutilated  him,  had  it 
not  missed  the  mark,  and  stuck  in  the  wainscot  of  the  room. 
“Martyn,”  exclaimed  his  friend,  in  consternation,  “if  you  do  not 
learn  to  govern  your  temper,  you  will  one  day  be  hanged  for  mur- 
der ! ” He  did  learn  to  govern  it ; became  meek  and  humble ; won 
high  honors  in  college ; went  to  India  as  a missionary ; distinguished 
himself  as  a linguist;  translated  the  Testament  into  several  lan- 
guages ; and  died,  after  doing  and  enduring  a vast  deal  to  rescue  the 
East  from  the  darkness  of  paganism.  What  if,  with  his  sensitive 
and  fiery  organism,  he  had  been  born  amid  the  squalor  and  vice  of 
St.  Giles?  Or  who  can  say  what  Martin  Luther  would  have  become, 
if,  born  as  he  was  with  organs  of  destructiveness  like  those  of  a 
bull-dog,  he  had  not  been  led  by  his  religious  training  to  employ  his 
destructive  energies  in  killing  error  instead  of  in  killing  human  be- 
ings? An  English  writer  was  so  struck  with  the  prodigious  energy, 
the  native  feral  force  of  Chalmers,  that  he  declared  that  had  it  not  been 
intellectualized  and  sanctified  it  would  have  made  him,  who  was  the 
greatest  of  orators,  the  strongest  of  ruffians,  a mighty  murderer 
upon  the  earth.  On  the  other  hand,  who  does  not  remember  that 
even  Nero,  at  one  time  of  his  life,  could  lament  that  he  knew  how 
to  read  or  write,  when  called  on  to  sign  a death  warrant.  The 
colliers  of  Bristol  had  been  noted  for  ages  as  among  the  most  hard- 
ened and  profligate  of  beings,  till  Whitefield  touched  them  one  day 
with  the  wand  of  his  magic  eloquence.  Even  a Nancy  Sykes,  amid 


182 


TEEASUEES  FEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELI). 


the  grossest  degradation,  could  do  many  virtuous  actions ; and  the 
stern  Milton  has  said  that  “it  was  from  the  rind  of  one  apple  thau 
the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil,  as  two  twins  cleaving  together, 
leaped  forth  into  the  world.”  Moderate, then,  0 thou  stern  moral- 
ist ! thy  harsh  and  unrelenting  views  of  human  guilt:  — 

“Still  mark  if  vice  or  nature  prompt  the  deed ; 

Still  mark  the  strong  temptation  or  the  need; 

On  pressing  want,  on  famine’s  powerful  call, 

At  least  more  lenient  let  thy  justice  fall; 

For  him,  who,  lost  to  every  hope  of  life, 

Has  long  with  fortune  held  unequal  strife, 

Known  to  no  human  love,  no  human  care, 

The  friendless,  homeless  object  of  despair; 

For  the  poor  vagrant  feel,  while  he  complains. 

Nor  from  sad  freedom  send  to  sadder  chains. 

Alike  if  fortune  or  misfortune  brought 
Those  last  of  woes  his  evil  days  have  wrought ; 

Believe,  with  social  mercy  and  with  me, 

Folly’s  misfortune  in  the  first  degree.” 


\ 


Shakespere’ s Style. 

Woids  in  a master’s  hands  seem  more  than  words;  he  seems 
to  double  or  quadruple  their  power  by  skill  in  using,  giving  them 
a force  and  significance  which  in  the  dictionary  they  never  pos- 
sessed. Yet,  mighty  as  is  the  sorcery  of  these  wizards  of  words, 
that  of  Shakespere  is  still  greater.  The  marvel  of  his  diction  is 
its  immense  suggestiveness, — the  mysterious  synthesis  of  sound 
and  sense,  of  meaning  and  association,  which  characterizes  his 
verse ; a necromancy  to  which  Emerson  alludes  in  a passage  which 
is  itself  an  illustration  almost  of  the  thing  it  describes.  Speaking 
of  the  impossibility  of  acting  or  reciting  Shakespere’s  plays,  he 
says:  “The  recitation  begins,  when  lo!  one  golden  word  leaps  out 
immortal  from  all  this  painted  pedantry,  and  sweetly  torments  us 
with  invitations  to  its  own  inaccessible  homes.” 

Hardly  less  surprising  than  this  suggestiveness  of  Shakespere, 


183 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 

is  the  variety  of  rhythm  in  his  ten-syllahle  verse.  We  speak  some- 
times of  Shakespere’s  style;  hut  we  might  as  well  speak  of  the  style 
of  “Rumor  with  her  hundred  tongues.”  Shakespere  has  a multi- 
plicity of  styles,  varying  with  the  ever  varying  character  of  his 
themes.  The  Proteus  of  the  dramatic  art,  he  identifies  himself  with 
each  of  his  characters  in  turn,  passing  from  one  to  another  like 
the  same  soul  animating  different  bodies.  Like  a ventriloquist,  he 
throws  his  voice  into  other  men's  larynxes,  and  makes  every  word 
appear  to  come  from  the  person  whose  character  he  for  the  moment 
assumes.  The  movement  and  measure  of  Othello  and  The  Tempest, 
Macbeth  and  the  Midsummer  Night’s  Dream,  Lear  and  Goriolanus, 
are  almost  as  different  from  each  other  as  the  rhythm  of  them  all 
from  that  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher;  and  yet  in  every  case  the 
music  or  melody  is  a subtle  accompaniment  to  the  sentiment  that 
ensouls  the  play.  Whoever  would  know  the  exhaustless  riches  of 
our  many-tongued  language,  its  capability  of  expressing  the  dain- 
tiest delicacies  and  subtlest  refinements  of  thought,  as  well  as  the 
grandest  emotions  that  can  thrill  the  human  brain,  should  give  his 
days  and  nights  to  the  study  of  the  myriad- souled  poet.  It  may  be 
doubted  whether  there  is  any  inflection  of  harmony,  any  witchery 
of  melody,  from  the  warble  of  the  flute  and  the  low  thrill  of  the 
flageolet  to  the  trumpet-peal  or  the  deep  and  dreadful  sub-bass  of 
the  organ,  which  is  not  brought  out  in  the  familiar  or  the  passion* 
ate  tones  of  this  imperial  master. 


184 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


DR  SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


AMUEL  JOHNSON  was  born  at  Litchfield,  Sept.  18, 1709. 


After  having  fought  the  early  battles  of  life  in  feeble 


health  and  poverty,  and  without  patronage,  he  gained  a 
complete  victory,  placed  himself  at  the  head  of  English 
literature,  and  died  in  a serene  and  happy  frame  of  mind  on 
the  13th  of  December,  1784. 

Johnson  had  attended  school  at  Oxford  fourteen  months 
when  his  father,  a bookseller,  met  with  misfortunes  in  trade, 
thereby  forcing  Samuel  to  leave  school.  In  his  short  col- 
lege life,  he  distinguished  himself  by  translating  Pope’s  Mes- 
siah into  Latin  verse.  To  do  Johnson  justice  in  a brief 
sketch  is  impossible,  but  the  plan  of  this  book  forbids  more 
than  the  following  summary  of  his  work.  Upon  failure  to 
found  a private  academy  at  Edial,  near  his  native  city,  he 
determined  to  make  authorship  his  profession.  His  first 
tragedy,  Irene,  was  refused  by  stage  managers,  but  his  con- 
tributions to  the  Gentleman’ s Magazine  were  quite  popular. 
He  next  wrote  monthly  reports  of  the  proceedings  of  Parlia- 
ment, taking  care  to  give  the  Tories  the  advantage  over  the 
Whigs.  In  1738,  appeared  his  poem  of  London,  for  which 
Dodsley  gave  him  ten  guineas.  No  name  was  signed  to  this 
poem,  but  Pope  made  inquiries  after  the  author,  saying  such 
a man  would  soon  be  known.  In  1744,  he  published  the 
Life  of  Savage,  late  editor  of  the  Gentleman’ s Magazine.  “This 
admirable  specimen  of  biography  was  published  anony- 
mously, but  it  was  known  to  be  Johnson’s.” 

His  reputation  was  so  well  established  by  this  time  that 
the  chief  booksellers  of  London  engaged  him,  for  1500  guin- 
eas, to  prepare  a Dictionary  of  the  English  Language.  The 


DR.  SAMUEL  JOHNSON, 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


185 


work  was  completed  in  about  seven  years.  Johnson's  Dic- 
tionary became  at  once  the  standard  authority  in  England. 
His  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes  appeared  in  1748;  Irene,  for- 
merly refused,  was  brought  out  by  Garrick  in  1749.  John- 
son’s other  works  were  the  Rambler,  1750-52  ; the  Idler, 
1758-GU  ; the  tale  of  Rasselas,  1759.  The  last  named  was 
written  to  pay  a debt,  and  also  to  pay  the  funeral  expenses 
of  his  mother,  who  had  died  at  the  age  of  ninety. 

In  1765  appeared  his  edition  of  Shakspere,  and  in 
1775  appeared  his  Lives  of  the  Poets,  the  most  interesting 
and  valuable  of  his  last  works. 

Johnson  is  also  numbered  among  the  great  poets.  Sir 
Walter  Scott  has  termed  his  poem,  The  Vanity  of  Human 
Wishes,  a satire,  the  deep  and  pathetic  morality  of  which 
has  often  extracted  tears  from  those  whose  eyes  wander  dry 
over  pages  professedly  sentimental. 

At  the  age  of  twenty-seven,  he  married  Mrs.  Porter,  a 
widow  who  was  in  her  forty-eighth  year.  In  1762,  through 
the  influence  of  Lord  Bute,  the  then  all-potent  minister  of 
England,  a pension  of  £300  was  settled  upon  Johnson.  In 
1773,  at  the  age  of  sixty-four,  he  commenced  his  celebrated 
journey  to  the  Hebrides.  The  greater  part  of  the  journey 
he  performed  on  horseback.  His  narrative  of  his  travels 
is  one  of  his  most  interesting  works.  His  Tory  principles 
led  him  to  write  two  pamphlets  in  defense  of  the  ministry 
and  in  bitter  opposition  to  the  claims  of  the  Americans.  In 
the  literary  club,  including  Burke,  Reynolds,  Goldsmith,  Gib- 
bon, Murphy,  and  others,  Johnson  “ reigned  supreme,  the 
most  brilliant  conversationalist  of  his  age.”  “ In  massive 
force  of  understanding,  multifarious  knowledge,  sagacity,  and 
moral  intrepidity,  no  writer  of  the  eighteenth  century  sur- 
passes Dr.  Samuel  Johnson .” 


186  TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORL1). 


On  Revenge. 

A wise  man  will  make  haste  to  forgive,  because  he  knows  the 
true  value  of  time,  and  will  not  suffer  it  to  pass  away  in  unnecessary 
pain.  He  that  willingly  suffers  the  corrosions  of  inveterate  hatred, 
and  gives  up  his  days  and  nights  to  the  gloom  and  malice  and  per- 
turbations of  strategem,  cannot  surely  he  said  to  consult  his  ease. 
Resentment  is  a union  of  sorrow  with  malignity,  a combination  of 
a passion  which  all  endeavor  to  avoid,  with  a passion  which  all  con- 
cur to  detest.  The  man  who  retires  to  meditate  mischief,  and  to 
exasperate  his  own  rage — whose  thoughts  are  employed  only  on 
means  of  distress  and  contrivances  of  ruin — whose  mind  never 
pauses  for  the  remembrance  of  his  own  sufferings,  but  to  indulge 
some  hope  of  enjoying  the  calamities  of  another — may  justly  be 
numbered  among  the  most  miserable  of  human  beings,  among 
those  who  are  guilty  without  reward,  who  have  neither  the  gladness 
of  prosperity  nor  the  calm  of  innocence.  Whoever  considers  the 
weakness  both  of  himself  and  others,  will  not  long  want  persua- 
sives to  forgiveness.  We  know  not  to  what  degree  of  malignity 
any  injury  is  to  be  imputed;  or  how  much  its  guilt,  if  we  were  to 
inspect  the  mind  of  him  that  committed  it,  would  be  extenuated  by 
mistake,  precipitance,  or  negligence;  we  cannot  be  certain  how 
much  more  we  feel  than  was  intended  to  be  inflicted,  or  how  much 
we  increase  the  mischief  to  ourselves  by  voluntary  aggravations. 
We  may  charge  to  design  the  effects  of  accident;  we  may  think  the 
blow  violent  only  because  we  have  made  ourselves  delicate  and  ten- 
der; we  are  on  every  side  in  danger  of  error  and  of  guilt  which  we 
are  certain  to  avoid  only  by  speedy  forgiveness. 

From  this  pacific  and  harmless  temper,  thus  propitious  to 
others  and  ourselves,  to  domestic  tranquility  and  to  social  happi- 
ness, no  man  is  withheld  but  by  pride,  by  the  fear  of  being  insulted 
by  his  adversary,  or  despised  by  the  world.  It  may  be  laid  down 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD.  18? 

as  an  unfailing  and  universal  axiom,  that  ‘all  pride  is  abject  and 
mean.’  It  is  always  an  ignorant,  lazy,  or  cowardly  acquiescence  in 
a false  appearance  of  excellence,  and  proceeds  not  from  conscious- 
ness of  our  attainments,  but  insensibility  of  our  wants. 

Nothing  can  be  great  which  is  not  right. 

Nothing  which  reason  condemns  can  be  suitable  to  the  dignity 
of  the  human  mind. 

To  be  driven  by  external  motives  from  the  path  which  our  own 
heart  approves,  to  give  way  to  anything  but  conviction,  to  suffer 
the  opinion  of  others  to  rule  our  choice  or  overpower  our  resolves, 
is  to  submit  tamely  to  the  lowest  and  most  ignominious  slavery  and 
to  resign  the  right  of  directing  our  own  lives. 

The  utmost  excellence  at  which  humanity  can  arrive  is  a con- 
stant and  determinate  pursuit  of  virtue  without  regard  to  present 
dangers  or  advantages ; a continual  reference  of  every  action  to  the 
divine  will;  a habitual  appeal  to  everlasting  justice;  and  an  unva- 
ried elevation  of  the  intellectual  eye  to  the  reward  which  persever- 
ance can  only  obtain.  But  that  pride  which  many,  who  presume 
to  boast  of  generous  sentiments,  allow  to  regulate  their  measures, 
has  nothing  nobler  in  view  than  the  approbation  of  men ; of  beings 
whose  superiority  we  are  under  no  obligation  to  acknowledge,  and 
who,  when  we  have  courted  them  with  the  utmost  assiduity,  can 
confer  no  valuable  or  permanent  reward ; of  beings  who  ignorantly 
judge  of  what  they  do  not  understand,  or  partially  determine  what 
they  have  never  examined,  and  whose  sentence  is  therefore  of  no 
weight,  till  it  has  received  the  ratification  of  our  own  conscience. 

He  that  can  descend  to  bribe  suffrages  like  these  at  the  price  of 
his  innocence — he  that  can  suffer  the  delight  of  such  acclamations 
to  withhold  his  attention  from  the  commands  of  the  universal  sov- 
ereign— has  little  reason  to  congratulate  himself  upon  the  greatness 
of  his  mind;  whenever  he  awakes  to  seriousness  and  reflection,  he 
must  become  despicable  in  his  own  eyes,  and  shrink  with  shame 
from  the  remembrance  of  his  cowardice  and  folly. 

Of  him  that  hopes  to  he  forgiven,  it  is  indispensably  required 
that  he  forgive.  It  is  therefore  superfluous  to  urge  any  other  mo- 


188 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


tive.  On  tills  great  duty  eternity  is  suspended;  and  to  him  that 
refuses  to  practice  it,  the  throne  of  mercy  is  inaccessible,  and  the 
Saviour  of  the  world  has  been  born  in  vain. 


Old  Age. 

I cannot  tell  where  childhood  ends,  and  manhood  begins;  nor 
where  manhood  ends,  and  old  age  begins.  It  is  a wavering  and 
uncertain  line,  not  straight  and  definite,  which  borders  betwixt 
the  two.  But  the  outward  characteristics  of  old  age  are  obvious 
enough.  The  weight  diminishes.  Man  is  commonly  heaviest  at 
forty;  woman  at  fifty.  After  that,  the  body  shrinks  a little;  the 
height  shortens  as  the  cartilages  become  thin  and  dry.  The  hair 
whitens  and  falls  away.  The  frame  stoops,  the  bones  become 
smaller,  feebler,  have  less  animal  and  more  mere  earthy  matter. 
The  senses  decay,  slowly  and  handsomely.  The  eye  is  not  so  sharp, 
and  while  it  penetrates  further  into  space,  it  has  less  power  clearly 
to  define  the  outlines  of  what  it  sees.  The  ear  is  dull;  the  appetite 
less.  Bodily  heat  is  lower;  the  breath  produces  less  carbonic  acid 
than  before.  The  old  man  consumes  less  food,  water,  air.  The 
hands  grasp  less  strongly;  the  feet  less  firmly  tread.  The  lungs 
suck  the  breast  of  heaven  with  less  powerful  collapse.  The  eye  and 
ear  take  not  so  strong  a hold  upon  the  world : — 


And  the  big  manly  voice; 

Turning  again  to  childish  treble,  pipes 
And  whistles  in  his  sound. 

The  animal  life  is  making  ready  to  go  out.  The  very  old  man 
loves  the  sunshine  and  the  fire,  the  arm  chair  and  the  shady  nook. 
A rude  wind  would  jostle  the  full-grown  apple  from  its  bough,  full- 
ripe,  full-colored,  too.  The  internal  characteristics  correspond. 
General  activity  is  less.  Salient  love  of  new  things  and  of  new 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


189 


persons,  which  hit  the  young  man’s  heart,  fades  away.  He  thinks 
the  old  is  better.  He  is  not  venturesome;  he  keeps  at  home.  Pas- 
sion  once  stung  him  into  quickened  life ; now  that  gad-fly  is  no 
more  buzzing  in  his  ears.  Madame  de  Stael  finds  compensation 
in  Science  for  the  decay  of  the  passion  that  once  fired  her  blood ; but 
Heathen  Socrates,  seventy  years  old,  thanks  the  gods  that  he  is  now 
free  from  that  “ravenous  beast,”  which  had  disturbed  his  philo* 
sophic  meditations  for  many  a year.  Romance  is  the  child  of  Pas- 
sion and  Imagination ; — the  sudden  father  that,  the  long  protracting 
mother  this.  Old  age  has  little  romance.  Only  some  rare  man, 
like  Wilhelm  von  Humboldt,  keeps  it  still  fresh  in  his  bosom. 

In  intellectual  matters,  the  venerable  man  loves  to  recall  the. 
old  times,  to  revive  his  favorite  old  men, — no  new  ones  half  so 
fair.  So  in  Homer,  Nestor,  who  is  the  oldest  of  the  Greeks,  is 
always  talking  of  the  old  times,  before  the  grandfathers  of  men 
then  living  had  come  into  being;  “ not  such  as  live  in  these  degen- 
erate days.”  Verse-loving  John  Quincy  Adams  turns  off  from 
Byron  and  Shelley  and  Wieland  and  Goethe,  and  returns  to  Pope, 

Who  pleased  his  childhood  &nd  informed  his  youth. 

The  pleasure  of  hope  is  smaller;  that  of  memory  greater.  It 
is  exceedingly  beautiful  that  it  is  so.  The  venerable  man  loves  to 
set  recollection  to  beat  the  roll-call,  and  summon  up  from  the  grave 
the  old  time,  “the  good  old  time,” — the  old  places,  old  friends, 
old  games,  old  talk ; nay,  to  his  ear  the  old  familiar  tunes  are 
sweeter  than  anything  that  Mendelssohn,  or  Strauss,  or  Rossini 
can  bring  to  pass.  Elder  Brewster  expects  to  hear  St.  Martins  and 
Old  Hundred  chanted  in  Heaven.  Why  not?  To  him  Heaven 
comes  in  the  long  used  musical  tradition,  not  in  the  neologies  of 
sound.  * * * * * * * 

Then  the  scholar  becomes  an  antiquary;  he  likes  not  young 
men  unless  he  knew  their  grandfathers  before.  The  young  woman 
looks  in  the  newspaper  for  the  marriages,  the  old  man,  for  the 
deaths.  The  young  man’s  eye  looks  forward;  the  world  is  “ all 
before  him  where  to  choose.”  It  is  a hard  world:  he  does  not 


190 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


know  it;  he  works  a little,  and  hopes  much.  The  middle-aged 
man  looks  around  at  the  present;  he  has  found  out  that  it  is  a 
hard  world;  he  hopes  less  and  works  more.  The  old  man  looks 
back  on  the  field  he  has  trod ; “ this  is  the  tree  I planted ; this  is 
my  footstep,”  and  he  loves  his  old  house,  his  old  carriage,  cat,  dog, 
staff,  and  friend.  In  lands  where  the  vine  grows,  I have  seen  an 
old  man  sit  all  day  long,  a sunny  autumn  day,  before  his  cottage 
door,  in  a great  arm-chair,  his  old  dog  crouched  at  his  feet  in  the 
genial  sun.  The  autumn  wind  played  with  the  old  man’s  venera- 
ble hairs;  above  him  on  the  wall,  purpling  in  the  sunlight,  hung 
the  full  cluster  of  the  grape,  ripening  and  maturing  yet  more.  The 
two  were  just  alike;  the  wind  stirred  the  vine  leaves  and  they  fell; 
stirred  the  old  man’s  hair  and  it  whitened  yet  more.  Both  were 
waiting  for  the  spirit  in  them  to  be  fully  ripe.  The  young  man 
looks  forward ; the  old  man  looks  back.  How  long  the  shadows 
lie  in  the  setting  sun,  the  steeple  a mile  long  reaching  across  the 
plain,  as  the  sun  stretches  out  the  hills  in  grotesque  dimensions. 
So  all  the  events  of  life  in  the  old  man’s  consciousness. 


The  Progress  of  Sin. 

I have  seen  the  little  purls  of  a spring  sweat  through  the  bot- 
tom of  a bank,  and  intenerate  the  stubborn  pavement  till  it  hath 
made  it  fit  for  the  impression  of  a child’s  foot;  and  it  was  despised, 
like  the  descending  pearls  of  a misty  morning,  till  it  had  opened  its 
way  and  made  a stream  large  enough  to  carry  away  the  ruins  of 
the  undermined  strand,  and  to  invade  the  neighboring  gardens; 
but  then  the  despised  drops  had  grown  into  an  artificial  river,  and 
an  intolerable  mischief.  So  are  the  first  entrances  of  sin,  stopped 
with  the  antidotes  of  a hearty  prayer,  and  checked  into  sobriety  by 
the  eye  of  a reverend  man,  or  the  counsels  of  a single  sermon;  but 
when  such  beginnings  are  neglected,  and  our  religion  hath  not  in  it 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


191 


so  much  philosophy  as  to  think  anything  evil  as  long  as  we  can 
endure  it,  they  grow  up  to  ulcers  and  pestilential  evils ; they  destroy 
the  soul  by  their  abode,  who  at  their  first  entry  might  have  been 
killed  with  the  pressure  of  a little  finger.  He  that  hath  passed 
many  stages  of  a good  life,  to  prevent  his  being  tempted  to  a single 
sin,  must  be  very  careful  that  he  never  entertain  his  spirit  with  the 
remembrances  of  his  past  sin,  nor  amuse  it  with  the  fantastic  appre- 
hensions of  the  present.  When  the  Israelites  fancied  the  sapidness 
and  relish  of  the  flesh  pots,  they  longed  to  taste  and  to  return. 

So  when  a Libyan  tiger,  drawn  from  his  wilder  foragings,  is 
shut  up  and  taught  to  eat  civil  meat,  and  suffer  the  authority  of  a 
man,  he  sits  down  tamely  in  his  prison  and  pays  to  his  keeper  fear 
and  reverence  for  his  meat ; hut  if  he  chance  to  come  again  and 
taste  a draught  of  warm  blood,  he  presently  leaps  into  his  natural 
cruelty.  He  scarce  abstains  from  eating  those  hands  that  brought 
him  discipline  and  food.  • • • • 

The  Pannonian  bears,  when  they  have  clasped  a dart  in  the 
region  of  their  liver,  wheel  themselves  upon  the  wound,  and  with 
anger  and  malicious  revenge  strike  the  deadly  barb  deeper,  and 
cannot  be  quit  from  that  fatal  steel,  but,  in  flying,  bear  along  that 
which  themselves  make  the  instrument  of  a more  hasty  death ; so, 
in  every  vicious  person  struck  with  a deadly  wound,  and  his  own 
hands  force  it  into  the  entertainments  of  the  heart ; and  because  it 
is  painful  to  draw  it  forth  by  a sharp  and  salutary  repentance,  he 
still  rolls  and  turns  upon  his  wound,  and  carries  his  death  in  his 
bowels,  where  it  first  entered  by  choice,  and  then  dwelt  by  love,  and 
at  last  shall  finish  the  tragedy  by  divine  judgments  and  an  unal- 
terable decree. 


r 


192 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


Marriage. 

They  that  enter  in  the  state  of  marriage  cast  a die  of  the  greatest 
contingency  afrd  yet  of  the  greatest  interest  in  the  world,  next  to 
the  last  throw  for  eternity.  Life  or  death,  felicity  or  a lasting  sor- 
row, are  in  the  power  of  marriage.  A woman,  indeed,  ventures 
most,  for  she  has  no  sanctuary  to  retire  to  from  an  evil  husband; 
she  must  dwell  upon  her  sorrow,  and  hatch  the  eggs  which  her  own 
folly  or  infelicity  hath  produced;  and  she  is  more  under  it,  because 
her  tormentor  hath  a warrant  of  prerogative,  and  the  woman  may 
complain  to  God,  as  subjects  do  of  tyrant  princes;  but  otherwise 
she  has  no  appeal  in  the  causes  of  unkindness.  And  though  the 
man  can  run  from  many  hours  of  his  sadness,  yet  he  must  return 
to  it  again;  and  when  he  sits  among  his  neighbors  he  remembers 
the  objection  that  lies  in  his  bosom,  and  he  sighs  deeply.  The  boys 
and  the  pedlers,  and  the  fruiterers,  shall  tell  of  this  man  when  he 
is  carried  to  his  grave,  that  he  lived  and  died  a poor  wretched 
person. 

The  stags  in  the  Greek  epigram,  whose  knees  were  clogged 
with  frozen  snow  upon  the  mountains,  came  down  to  the  brooks  of 
the  valleys,  hoping  to  thaw  their  joints  with  the  waters  of  the  stream; 
but  there  the  frost  overtook  them,  and  bound  them  fast  in  ice,  till 
the  young  herdsmen  took  them  in  their  stranger  snare.  It  is 
the  unhappy  chance  of  many  men,  finding  many  inconveniences 
upon  the  mountains  of  single  life,  they  descend  into  the  valleys  of 
marriage  to  refresh  their  troubles;  and  there  they  enter  into  fetters, 
and  are  bound  to  sorrow  by  the  chords  of  a man  or  woman’s 
peevishness. 

Man  and  wife  are  equally  concerned  to  avoid  all  offences  of 
each  other  in  the  beginning  of  their  conversation ; every  little  thing 
can  blast  an  infant  blossom,  and  the  breath  of  the  South  can 
shake  the  little  rings  of  the  vine,  when  first  they  begin  to  curl  like 
the  locks  of  a new  weaned  boy;  but  when  by  age  and  consolidation 
they  stiffen  in  the  hardness  of  a stem,  and  have,  by  the  warm  em- 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


193 


braces  of  the  sun  and  the  kisses  of  the  heaven,  brought  forth  their 
clusters,  they  can  endure  the  storms  of  the  North,  and  the  loud 
noises  of  a tempest,  and  yet  never  be  broken : so  are  the  early  unions 
of  an  unfixed  marriage ; watchful  and  observant,  jealous  and  busy, 
inquisitive  and  careful,  and  apt  to  take  alarm  at  every  unkind  word. 
After  the  hearts  of  the  man  and  the  wife  are  endeared  and  hard- 
ened by  a mutual  confidence  and  experience,  longer  than  artifice  and 
pretense  can  last,  there  are  a great  many  remembrances,  and  some 
things  present,  that  dash  all  unkindnesses  in  pieces.  • • • • 

There  is  nothing  can  please  a man  without  love ; and  if  a man 
be  weary  of  the  wise  discourses  of  the  apostles,  and  of  the  innocency 
of  an  even  and  a private  fortune,  or  hates  peace,  or  a fruitful 
year,  he  hath  reaped  thorns  and  thistles  from  the  choicest  flowers 
of  Paradise,  for  nothing  can  sweeten  felicity  itself  but  love ; but 
when  a man  dwells  in  love,  then  the  breasts  of  his  wife  are  pleasant 
as  the  droppings  upon  the  hill  of  Hermon ; her  eyes  are  fair  as  the 
fight  of  heaven;  she  is  a fountain  sealed,  and  he  can  quench  his 
thirst,  and  ease  his  cares,  and  lay  his  sorrows  down  upon  her  laj), 
and  can  retire  home  to  his  sanctuary  and  refectory,  and  his  gardens 
of  sweetness  and  chaste  refreshments.  No  man  can  tell  but  he  that 
loves  his  children,  how  many  delicious  accents  make  a man’s  heart 
dance  in  the  pretty  conversation  of  those  dear  pledges ; their  child- 
ishness, their  stammering,  their  little  angers,  their  innocence,  their 
imperfections,  their  necessities,  are  so  many  little  emanations  of 
joy  and  comfort  to  him  that  delights  in  their  persons  and  society. 
• • • • It  is  fit  that  I should  infuse  a bunch  of  myrrh  into  the  fes- 
tival goblet,  and,  after  the  Egyptian  manner,  serve  up  a dead  man’s 
bones  at  a feast;  I will  only  shew  it,  and  take  it  away  again ; it  will 
make  the  wine  bitter,  but  wholesome.  But  those  married  pairs 
that  five  as  remembering  that  they  must  part  again,  and  give  an 
account  how  they  treat  themselves  and  each  other,  shall,  at  that 
day  of  their  death,  be  admitted  to  glorious  espousals;  and  when 
they  shall  five  again,  be  married  to  their  Lord,  and  partake  of  his 
glories  with  Abraham  and  Joseph,  St.  Peter  and  St.  Paul,  and  all 

the  married  saints.  All  those  things  that  now  please  us  shall 
18 


194 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


pass  from  us,  or  we  from  them ; but  those  things  that  concern  the 
other  life  are  permanent  as  the  numbers  of  eternity.  And  although 
at  the  resurrection  there  shall  he  no  relation  of  husband  and  wife, 
and  no  marriage  shall  he  celebrated  but  the  marriage  of  the  Lamb, 
yet  then  shall  be  remembered  how  men  and  women  passed  through 
this  state,  which  is  a type  of  that;  and  from  this  sacramental  union 
all  holy  pairs  shall  pass  to  the  spiritual  and  eternal,  where  love 
shall  he  their  portion,  and  joys  shall  crown  their  heads,  and  they 
shall  lie  in  the  bosom  of  Jesus,  and  in  the  heart  of  God,  to  eternal 
ages. 


The  Skylark. 

For  so  I have  seen  a lark  rising  from  his  bed  of  grass,  and 
soaring  upwards,  singing  as  he  rises,  and  hopes  to  get  to  heaven 
and  climb  above  the  clouds ; hut  the  poor  bird  was  beaten  hack  with 
the  loud  sighings  of  an  eastern  wind,  and  his  motion  made  irregu- 
lar and  inconstant,  descending  more  at  every  breath  of  the  tempest 
than  it  could  recover  by  the  vibration  and  frequent  weighing  of  his 
wings,  till  the  little  creature  was  forced  to  sit  down  and  pant,  and 
stay  till  the  storm  was  over;  and  then  it  made  a prosperous  flight, 
and  did  rise  and  sing,  as  if  it  had  learned  music  and  motion  from 
an  angel,  as  he  passed  sometimes  through  the  air,  about  his  minis- 
tries here  below. 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


195 


The  Blind  Preacher. 

I have  been,  my  dear  S , on  an  excursion  through  the 

counties  which  lie  along  the  eastern  side  of  the  Blue  Ridge.  A 
general  description  of  that  country  and  its  inhabitants  may  form 
the  subject  of  a future  letter.  For  the  present,  I must  entertain 
you  with  an  account  of  a most  singular  and  interesting  adventure, 
which  I met  with,  in  the  course  of  the  tour. 

It  was  one  Sunday,  as  I traveled  through  the  county  of 
Orange,  that  my  eye  was  caught  by  a cluster  of  horses  tied  near  a 
ruinous,  old,  wooden  house,  in  the  forest,  not  far  from  the  roadside. 
Having  frequently  seen  such  objects  before,  in  traveling  through 
these  states,  I had  no  difficulty  in  understanding  that  this  was  a 
place  of  religious  worship. 

Devotion  alone  should  have  stopped  me,  to  join  in  the  duties 
of  the  congregation ; but  I must  confess  that  curiosity  to  hear  the 
preacher  of  such  a wilderness  was  not  the  least  of  my  motives. 
On  entering,  I was  struck  with  his  preternatural  appearance.  He 
was  a tall  and  very  spare  old  man;  his  head,  which  was  covered 
with  a white  linen  cap,  his  shriveled  hands,  and  his  voice,  were  all 
shaking  under  the  influence  of  a palsy;  and  a few  moments  ascer- 
tained to  me  that  he  was  perfectly  blind. 

The  first  emotions  which  touched  my  breast,  were  those  of 
mingled  pity  and  veneration.  But  ah!  sacred  God!  how  soon 
were  all  my  feelings  changed ! The  lips  of  Plato  were  never  more 
worthy  of  a prognostic  swarm  of  bees,  than  were  the  lips  of  this 
holy  man ! It  was  a day  of  the  administration  of  the  sacrament ; 
and  his  subject,  of  course,  was  the  passion  of  our  Saviour.  I had 
heard  the  subject  handled  a thousand  times;  I had  thought  it 
exhausted  long  ago.  Little  did  I suppose  that  in  the  wild  woods 
of  America  I was  to  meet  with  a man  whose  eloquence  would  give 
the  topic  a new  and  more  sublime  pathos  than  I had  ever  before 
witnessed. 


196 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


As  he  descended  from  the  pulpit,  to  distribute  the  mystic  sym- 
bols, there  was  a peculiar,  a more  than  human  solemnity  in  his  air 
and  manner  which  made  my  blood  run  cold  and  my  whole  frame 
shiver. 

He  then  drew  a picture  of  the  sufferings  of  our  Saviour;  his 
trial  before  Pilate;  his  ascent  up  Calvary;  his  crucifixion,  and  his 
death.  I knew  the  whole  history;  but  never,  until  then,  had  I 
heard  the  circumstances  so  selected,  so  arranged,  so  colored!  It 
was  all  new,  and  I seemed  to  have  heard  it  for  the  first  time  in 
my  life.  His  enunciation  was  so  deliberate,  that  his  voice  trembled 
on  every  syllable;  and  every  heart  in  the  assembly  trembled  in 
unison.  His  peculiar  phrases  had  that  force  of  description  that 
the  original  scene  appeared  to  be,  at  that  moment,  acting  before 
our  eyes.  We  saw  the  very  faces  of  the  Jews:  the  staring,  fright- 
ful distortions  of  malice  and  rage.  We  saw  the  buffet;  my  soul 
kindled  with  a flame  of  indignation ; and  my  hands  were  involun- 
tarily and  convulsively  clinched. 

But  when  he  came  to  touch  on  the  patience,  the  forgiving 
meekness  of  our  Saviour;  when  he  drew,  to  the  life,  his  blessed 
eyes  streaming  in  tears  to  Heaven;  his  voice  breathing  to  God,  a 
soft  and  gentle  prayer  of  pardon  on  his  enemies. — “Father,  forgive 
them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do” — the  voice  of  the  preacher, 
which  had  all  along  faltered,  grew  fainter  and  fainter,  until  his 
utterance  being  entirely  obstructed  by  the  force  of  his  feelings;  he 
raised  his  handkerchief  to  his  eyes,  and  burst  into  a loud  and  irre- 
pressible flood  of  grief.  The  effect  is  inconceivable.  The  whole 
house  resounded  with  the  mingled  groans,  and  sobs,  and  shrieks  of 
the  congregation. 

It  was  some  time  before  the  tumult  had  subsided,  so  far  as  to 
permit  him  to  proceed.  Indeed,  judging  by  the  usual  but  fallacious 
standard  of  my  own  weakness,  I began  to  be  very  uneasy  for  the 
situation  of  the  preacher.  For  I could  not  conceive  how  he  would 
be  able  to  let  his  audience  down  from  the  height  to  which  he  had 
wound  them  without  impairing  the  solemnity  and  dignity  of  his 
subject,  or  perhaps  shocking  them  by  the  abruptness  of  the  fall. 


TEEASUEES  FEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELE. 


197 


But — no ; the  descent  was  as  beautiful  and  sublime  as  the  elevation 
bad  been  rapid  and  enthusiastic. 

The  first  sentence  which  broke  the  awful  silence,  was  a quota- 
tion from  Kousseau,  “Socrates  died  bke  a philosopher,  but  Jesus 
Chirst,  like  a God!” 

I despair  of  giving  you  any  idea  of  the  effect  produced  by  this 
short  sentence,  unless  you  could  perfectly  conceive  the  whole  man- 
ner of  the  man,  as  well  as  the  peculiar  crisis  in  the  discourse. 
Never  before  did  I completely  understand  what  Demosthenes  meant 
by  laying  such  stress  on  delivery.  You  are  to  bring  before  you  the 
venerable  figure  of  the  preacher;  his  blindness,  constantly  recall- 
ing to  your  recollection  old  Homer,  Ossian,  and  Milton,  and  asso- 
ciating with  his  performance  the  melancholy  grandeur  of  their 
geniuses;  you  are  to  imagine  you  hear  his  slow,  solemn,  well 
accented  enunciation,  and  his  voice  of  affecting,  trembling  melody; 
you  are  to  remember  the  pitch  of  passion  and  enthusiasm  to  which 
the  congregation  were  raised;  and  then,  the  few  minutes  of  por- 
tentous, death-like  silence  which  reigned  throughout  the  house;  the 
preacher  removing  his  white  handkerchief  from  his  aged  face  (even 
yet  wet  from  the  recent  torrent  of  his  tears),  and  slowly  stretching 
forth  the  palsied  hand  which  holds  it,  begins  the  sentence,  “So- 
crates died  like  a philosopher’’ — then  pausing,  raising  his  other 
hand,  pressing  them  both  clasped  together,  with  warmth  and 
energy  to  his  breast,  lifting  his  “sightless  balls”  to  heaven,  and 
pouring  his  whole  soul  into  his  tremulous  voice — “but  Jesus  Christ 
— hke  a God!”  If  he  had  been  indeed  and  in  truth  an  angel  of 
light,  the  effect  could  scarcely  have  been  more  divine. 

Whatever  I had  been  able  to  conceive  of  the  sublimity  of 
Massillon,  or  the  force  of  Bourdalone,  had  fallen  far  short  of  the 
power  which  I felt  from  the  delivery  of  this  simple  sentence.  The 
blood,  which  just  before  had  rushed  in  a hurricane  upon  my  brain, 
and,  in  the  violence  and  agony  of  my  feelings  had  held  my  whole 
system  in  suspense,  now  ran  back  into  my  heart,  with  a sensation 
which  I cannot  describe — a kind  of  shuddering,  delicious  horror! 
The  paroxysm  of  blended  pity  and  indignation,  to  which  I had  been 


198 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


transported,  subsided  into  the  deepest  self-abasement,  humility  and 
adoration.  I had  just  been  lacerated  and  dissolved  by  sympathy 
for  our  Saviour  as  a fellow  creature ; but  now,  with  fear  and  trem- 
bling, I adored  him  as — “a  God!” 

If  this  description  gives  you  the  impression  that  this  incom- 
parable minister  had  anything  of  shallow,  theatrical  trick  in  his 
manner,  it  does  him  great  injustice.  I have  never  seen  in  any 
other  orator,  such  a union  of  simplicity  and  majesty.  He  has  not 
a gesture,  an  attitude  or  an  accent,  to  which  he  does  not  seem 
forced,  by  the  sentiment  which  he  is  expressing.  His  mind  is  too 
serious,  too  earnest,  too  solicitous,  and,  at  the  same  time  too  dignified, 
to  stoop  to  artifice.  Although  as  far  removed  from  ostentation  as  a 
man  can  be,  yet  it  is  clear  from  the  train,  the  style  and  substance  of 
his  thoughts,  that  he  is  not  only  a very  polite  scholar,  but  a man 
of  extensive  and  profound  erudition.  I was  forcibly  struck  with  a 
short,  yet  beautiful  character  which  he  drew  of  our  learned  and 
amiable  countryman,  Sir  Robert  Boyle;  he  spoke  of  him,  as  if 
“his  noble  mind  had,  even  before  death,  divested  herself  of  all  in- 
fluence from  his  frail  tabernacle  of  flesh;”  and  called  him  in  his 
peculiarly  emphatic  and  impressive  manner,  “a  pure  intelligence; 
the  link  between  men  and  angels.” 

This  man  has  been  before  my  imagination  almost  ever  since. 
A thousand  times,  as  I rode  along,  I dropped  the  reins  of  my  bri- 
dle, stretched  forth  my  hand,  and  tried  to  imitate  his  quotation 
from  Rousseau;  a thousand  times  I abandoned  the  attempt  in 
despair,  and  felt  persuaded  that  his  peculiar  manner  and  power 
arose  from  an  energy  of  soul,  which  nature  could  give,  but  which 
no  human  being  could  justly  copy.  In  short,  he  seems  to  be  alto- 
gether a being  of  a former  age,  or  of  a totally  different  nature  from 
the  rest  of  men.  As  I recall,  at  this  moment,  several  of  his 
awfully  striking  attitudes,  the  chilling  tide  with  which  my  blood 
begins  to  pour  along  my  arteries  reminds  me  of  the  emotions  pro- 
duced by  the  first  sight  of  Gray’s  introductory  picture  of  his  bard: 

“On  a rocjr,  whose  haughty  brow 
Frowns  o’er  old  Conway’s  foaming  flood, 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


199 


Robed  in  the  sable  garb  of  woe, 

With  haggard  eyes  the  poet  stood; 

(Loose  his  beard  and  hoary  hair 
Streamed,  like  a meteor,  to  the  troubled  air) ; 

And  with  a poet’s  hand  and  a prophet’s  fire, 

Struck  the  deep  sorrows  of  his  lyre.” 

Guess  my  surprise,  when,  on  my  arrival  at  Richmond,  and 
mentioning  the  name  of  this  man,  I found  not  one  person  who  had 
ever  before  heard  of  James  Waddell!  Is  it  not  strange,  that  such  a 
genius  as  this,  so  accomplished  a scholar,  so  divine  an  orator, 
should  be  permitted  to  languish  and  die  in  obscurity,  within  eighty 
miles  of  the  metropolis  of  Virginia? 


Order  in  Nature. 

How  marvelous  is  this  order ! The  stones  and  soil  beneath  our 
feet,  and  the  ponderous  mountains,  are  not  mere  confused  masses 
of  matter;  they  are  pervaded  through  their  innermost  constitution 
by  the  harmony  of  numbers.  The  elements  of  the  wood  we  burn 
are  associated  in  fixed  mathematical  ratios.  In  the  violence  of  com- 
bustion, the  bond  that  held  them  together  is  destroyed ; they  break 
away  and  rush  into  new  combinations,  hut  they  cannot  escape  the 
law  of  numerical  destiny.  The  burning  candle  gradually  wastes 
away  before  us,  dissolves  in  air,  and  passes  beyond  the  reach  of 
sight;  but  in  that  invisible  region,  forces  are  playing  among  its  un- 
seen particles  with  the  same  exactitude  and  harmony  as  among 
those  which  rule  the  constellations.  And  so  is  it  with  all  chemical 
mutations.  In  the  gradual  growth  of  living  structures,  in  the  diges- 
tion of  food,  and  in  the  slow  decay  of  organic  matter,  no  less  than 
in  its  quick  combustion,  the  transposition  of  elements  takes  place 
in  rigorous  accordance  with  the  law  of  quantitative  proportion. 


200 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD*. 


EDWARD  EVERETT. 


EDWARD  EVERETT  was  born  in  Dorchester,  Mass.,  April 
11,  1794,  and  he  died  in  Boston,  Jan.  15,  1865.  “ At  the 
age  of  thirteen  he  entered  Harvard  College,  and  he  was 
graduated  with  the  highest  honors.”  He  also  studied  divin- 
ity and  settled  in  Boston  as  pastor  of  Brattle  Street  Church. 
His  scholarly  discourses  attracted  great  public  attention. 
He  was  appointed  professor  of  Greek  literature  at  Cambridge 
in  1814.  “He  spent  four  years  in  Europe,  visiting  the  prin- 
cipal cities  and  seats  of  learning,  and  extending  his  re- 
searches into  a wide  range  of  subjects.  On  his  return,  he 
gave  a brilliant  series  of  college  lectures,  and,  beside,  con- 
conducted  the  “North  American  Review.”  From  his  lecture  de- 
livered in  1824  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society  of  Harvard, 
we  have  taken  the  article  entitled  Welcome  to  La  Fayette. 
He  served  in  Congress  for  ten  years  from  1824,  then  served 
his  State  as  governor  for  four  terms.  In  1841,  President 
Harrison  appointed  him  minister  to  England.  He  returned 
to  the  United  States  in  1845,  and  was  made  president  of 
Harvard  College.  Upon  the  death  of  Daniel  Webster,  Presi- 
dent Fillmore  appointed  Everett  Secretary  of  State.  In  1853, 
he  was  chosen  United  States  senator,  but,  at  the  close  of 
one  year,  be  resigned.  For  the  purpose  of  purchasing  Mount 
Vernon,  he  visited  the  principal  cities  of  the  United  States, 
and  delivered  his  lecture  upon  Washington.  In  this  way  he 
raised  more  than  fifty  thousand  dollars. 

“ It  is  evident  from  this  brief  summary  that  Mr.  Everett 
was  a man  of  rare  powers  and  rarer  culture.  He  might 


EDWARD  EVERETT. 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


201 


truly  say,  'What  could  I have  done  unto  my  vineyard 
that  I have  not  done  unto  it?’  From  his  infancy  he 
seemed  to  have  been  marked  out  for  a scholar,  and  through 
his  life  he  enjoyed  exceptional  advantages  in  acquiring 
knowledge,  and  the  best  use  of  his  naturally  brilliant  facul- 
ties. His  orations  were  composed  for  widely  differing  occa- 
sions, but  in  each  case  the  treatment  is  so  masterly  that  one 
would  think  the  subject  then  in  hand  had  been  the  special 
study  of  his  life.  But  his  care  did  not  cease  with  the  prep- 
aration; his  voice,  gestures,  and  cadences  were  always  in 
harmony  with  his  theme,  so  that  he  was  absolute  master  of 
his  audience.  It  is  seldom  that  the  literary  annalist  has  to 
record  a career  in  which  the  preacher  and  essayist  is  devel- 
oped by  natural  growth  into  the  statesman  and  diplomatist, 
while  his  scholastic  tastes  and  habits  grow  in  parallel  lines, 
and  the  man  at  threescore  is  an  epitome  of  the  knowledge 
and  an  exemplar  of  the  eloquence  of  his  generation. 

“ Everett’s  works  are  always  interesting  to  the  reader. 
Open  a volume  at  random,  and  the  thought  at  once  engages 
attention.  It  is  true  we  do  not  find  passages,  like  those  in 
Webster’s  speeches,  which  come  upon  us  like  thunder  strokes  ; 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  there  are  fewer  arid  spaces.  Web- 
ster is  often  uninteresting,  if  not  dull,  for  pages  together. 
Everett,  if  he  never  astonishes,  never  fails  to  delight. 

"Mr.  Everett’s  works  are  comprised  in  four  vols.  8 vo. 
He  edited  also  the  works  of  Webster,  and  wrote  an  introduc- 
tory biography.” 


202 


treasures  from  the  prose  world. 


Welcome  to  La  Fayette. 

Meantime  the  years  are  rapidly  passing  away,  and  gathering 
importance  in  their  course.  With  the  present  year  will  be  com- 
pleted the  half  century  from  that  most  important  era  in  human 
history,  the  commencement  of  our  Revolutionary  War.  The  jubilee 
of  our  national  existence  is  at  hand.  The  space  of  time  that  has 
elapsed  from  that  momentous  date,  has  laid  down  in  the  dust,  which 
the  blood  of  many  of  them  had  already  hallowed,  most  of  the  great 
men  to  whom,  under  Providence,  we  owe  our  national  existence  and 
privileges.  A few  still  survive  among  us,  to  reap  the  rich  fruits  of 
their  labors  and  sufferings;  and  one  has  yielded  himself  to  the 
united  voice  of  a people,  and  returned  in  his  age  to  receive  the 
gratitude  of  the*  nation  to  whom  he  devoted  his  youth.  It  is 
recorded  on  the  pages  of  American  history,  that  when  this  friend 
of  our  country  applied  to  our  commissioners  at  Paris,  in  1776,  for 
a passage  to  America,  they  were  obliged  to  answer  him  (so  low  and 
abject  was  then  our  dear  native  land),  that  they  possessed  not  the 
means  nor  the  credit  sufficient  for  providing  a single  vessel,  in  all 
the  ports  of  France.  “Then,”  exclaimed  the  youthful  hero,  “I  will 
provide  my  own;”  and  it  is  a literal  fact,  that  when  all  America 
was  too  poor  to  offer  him  so  much  as  a passage  to  our  shores,  he 
left,  in  his  tender  youth,  the  bosom  of  home,  of  happiness,  of 
wealth,  of  rank,  to  plunge  in  the  dust  and  blood  of  our  inaus- 
picious struggle. 

Welcome,  Friend  of  our  Fathers,  to  our  shores ! Happy  are 
our  eyes  that  behold  those  venerable  features.  Enjoy  a triumph 
such  as  never  conqueror  or  monarch  enjoyed — the  assurance  that 
throughout  America  there  is  not  a bosom  which  does  not  heat  with 
joy  and  gratitude  at  the  sound  of  your  name.  You  have  already 
met  and  saluted,  or  will  soon  meet  the  few  that  remain  of  thp  ar- 
dent patriots,  prudent  counselors,  and  brave  warriors,  with  whom 
you  were  associated  in  achieving  our  liberty.  But  you  have  looked 


TREASURES  EROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


208 


around  in  vain  for  the  faces  of  many  who  would  have  hved  years 
of  pleasure  on  a day  hke  this,  with  their  old  companion  in  arms 
and  brother  in  peril.  Lincoln,  and  Greene,  and  Knox,  and  Ham- 
ilton are  gone;  the  heroes  of  Saratoga  and  Yorktown  have  fallen 
before  the  only  foe  they  could  not  meet.  Above  all,  the  first  of 
heroes  and  of  men,  the  friend  of  your  youth,  the  more  than  friend 
of  his  country,  rests  in  the  bosom  of  the  soil  he  redeemed.  On 
the  banks  of  his  Potomac  he  lies  in  glory  and  peace.  You  will 
revisit  the  hospitable  shades  of  Mount  Vernon,  but  him  whom  you 
venerated  as  we  did,  you  will  not  meet  at  its  door.  His  voice  of 
consolation,  which  reached  you  in  the  Austrian  dungeons,  cannot 
now  break  its  silence,  to  bid  you  welcome  to  his  own  roof.  But 
the  grateful  children  of  America  will  hid  you  welcome  in  his  name. 
Welcome,  thrice  welcome,  to  our  shores;  and  whithersoever 
throughout  the  limits  of  the  continent  your  course  shall  take  you, 
the  ear  that  hears  you  shall  bless  you,  the  eye  tnat  sees  you  shall 
hear  witness  to  you,  and  every  tongue  exclaim,  with  heartfelt  joy, 
Welcome,  Welcome,  Lafayette! 


Penn’s  Advice  to  His  Children. 

Next,  betake  yourself  to  some  honest,  industrious  course  of  life, 
and  that  not  of  sordid  covetousness,  hut  for  example,  and  to  avoid 
idleness.  And  if  you  change  your  condition  and  marry,  choose 
with  the  knowledge  and  consent  of  your  mother,  if  living,  or  of 
guardians,  or  of  those  that  have  the  charge  of  you.  Mind  neither 
beauty  nor  riches,  but  the  fear  of  the  Lord,  and  a sweet  and  amiable 
disposition,  such,  as  you  can  love  above  all  this  world,  and  that  may 
make  your  habitations  pleasant  and  desirable  to  you. 

And  being  married,  he  tender,  affectionate,  patient  and  meek. 
Live  in  the  fear  of  the  Lord,  and  He  wTill  bless  you  and  your  off- 
spring. Be  sure  to  live  within  compass;  borrow  not,  neither  be 


204 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


beholden  to  any.  Enin  not  yourself  by  kindness  to  others ; for  that 
exceeds  the  due  bonds  of  friendship,  neither  will  a true  friend  ex- 
pect it.  Small  matters  I heed  not. 

Let  your  industry  and  parsimony  go  no  further  than  for  a suffi- 
ciency for  life,  and  to  make  a provision  for  your  children,  and  that 
in  moderation,  if  the  Lord  gives  you  any.  I charge  you  help  the 
poor  and  needy ; let  the  Lord  have  a voluntary  share  of  your  in- 
come for  the  good  of  the  poor,  both  in  our  society  and  others — for 
we  are  all  his  creatures — remembering  that  “he  that  giveth  to  the 
poorlendeth  to  the  Lord.” 

Know  well  your  incomings,  and  your  outgoings  may  be  better 
regulated.  Love  not  money  nor  the  world;  use  them  only,  and  they 
will  serve  you;  but  if  you  love  them,  you  serve  them,  which  will 
debase  your  spirits  as  well  as  offend  the  Lord.  Pity  the  distressed, 
and  hold  out  a hand  of  help  to  them;  it  may  be  your  case,  and  as 
you  mete  to  others,  God  will  mete  to  you  again.  Be  humble  and 
gentle  in  your  conversation,  of  few  words,  I charge  you;  but  al- 
ways pertinent  when  you  speak,  hearing  out  before  you  attempt  to 
answer,  and  then  speaking  as  if  you  would  persuade,  not  impose. 
Affront  none,  neither  revenge  the  affronts  that  are  done  to  you;  but 
forgive,  and  you  shall  be  forgiven  of  your  Heavenly  Father. 

In  making  friends,  consider  well  first;  and  when  you  are  fixed, 
he  true,  not  wavering  by  reports,  nor  deserting  in  affliction,  for  that 
becomes  not  good  and  virtuous.  Watch  against  anger;  neither  speak 
nor  act  in  it;  for,  like  drunkenness,  it  makes  a man  a beast,  and 
throws  people  into  desperate  inconveniences.  Avoid  flatterers,  for 
they  are  thieves  in  disguise ; their  praise  is  costly,  designing  to  get 
by  those  they  bespeak ; they  are  the  worst  of  creatures ; they  lie  to 
flatter  and  flatter  to  cheat;  and  which  is  worse,  if  you  believe  them, 
you  cheat  yourselves  most  dangerously.  But  the  virtuous,  though 
poor,  love,  cherish,  and  prefer.  Remember  David,  who,  asking  the 
Lord:  “Who  shall  abide  in  thy  tabernacle?  who  shall  dwell  in  thy 
holy  hill?”  answers:  “He  that  walketh  uprightly,  and  worketh  right- 
eousness, and  speaketh  the  truth  in  his  heart;  in  whose  eyes  a vile 
person  is  contemned,  but  he  honoreth  them  that  fear  the  Lord.  ” 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


205 


Next,  my  children,  be  temperate  in  all  things:  in  your  diet,  for 
that  is  physic  by  prevention ; it  keeps,  nay,  it  makes  people  healthy, 
and  their  generation  sound.  This  is  exclusive  of  the  spiritual  ad- 
vantage it  brings.  Be  also  plain  in  your  apparel;  keep  out  that  lust 
which  reigns  too  much  over  some;  let  your  virtues  be  your  orna- 
ments, remembering  life  is  more  than  food,  and  the  body  than 
raiment.  Let  your  furniture  be  simple  and  cheap.  Avoid  pride, 
avarice,  and  luxury.  Read  my  “No  Cross,  No  Crown.”  There  is 
instruction.  Make  your  conversation  with  the  most  eminent  for 
wisdom  and  piety,  and  shun  all  wicked  men  as  you  hope  for  the 
blessing  of  God  and  the  comfort  of  your  father’s  living  and  dying 
prayers.  Be  sure  you  speak  no  evil  of  any,  no,  not  of  the  meanest, 
much  less  of  your  superiors,  as  magistrates,  guardians,  tutors, 
teachers  and  elders  in  Christ. 

Be  no  busy-bodies;  meddle  not  with  other  folks’  matters,  but 
when  in  conscience  and  duty  pressed;  for  it  procures  trouble,  and 
is  ill  manners,  and  very  unseemly  to  wise  men.  In  your  families 
remember  Abraham,  Moses  and  Joshua,  their  integrity  to  the  Lord, 
and  do  as  you  have>  them  for  your  example.  Let  the  fear  and  ser- 
vice of  the  living  God  be  encouraged  in  your  houses,  and  that  plain- 
ness, sobriety  and  moderation  in  all  things,  as  beeometh  God’s 
people ; and  as  I advise  you,  my  beloved  children,  do  you  counsel 
yours,  if  God  should  give  you  any.  Yea,  I counsel  and  command 
them  as  my  posterity,  that  they  love  and  serve  the  Lord  God  with 
an  upright  heart,  that  he  may  bless  you  and  yours  from  generation 
to  generation. 

And  as  for  you,  who  are  likely  to  be  concerned  in  the  govern- 
ment of  Pennsylvania  and  my  part  of  East  Jersey,  especially  the 
first,  I do  charge  you  before  the  Lord  God  and  his  holy  angels,  that 
you  be  lowly,  diligent,  and  tender,  fearing  God,  loving  the  people, 
and  hating  covetousness.  Let  justice  have  its  impartial  course, 
and  the  law  free  passage.  Though  to  your  loss,  protect  no  man 
against  it;  for  you  are  not  above  the  law,  but  the  law  above  you. 
Live,  therefore,  the  lives  yourselves,  you  would  have  the  people  live, 
and  then  you  have  right  and  boldness  to  punish  the  transgressor. 


206 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


Keep  upon  the  square,  for  God  sees  you;  therefore,  do  your  duty, 
and  be  sure  you  see  with  your  own  eyes,  and  hear  with  your  own 
ears.  Entertain  no  lurchers,  cherish  no  informers  for  gain  or  re- 
venge, use  no  tricks,  fly  to  no  devices  to  support  or  cover  in- 
justice; but  let  your  hearts  be  upright  before  the  Lord,  trusting 
in  him  above  the  contrivances  of  men,  and  none  shall  be  able  to 
hurt  or  supplant. 


Christianity. 

Taken  from  a speech  of  Charles  Phillips,  the  Irish  orator,  delivered  at  Cheltenham 
England,  on  the  7th  of  October,  1819,  at  the  fourth  anniversary  of  the  Gloucester 
Missionary  Society. 

When  I consider  the  source  from  whence  Christianity  springs 
— the  humility  of  its  origin — the  poverty  of  its  disciples — the  mira- 
cles of  its  creation — the  mighty  sway  it  has  acquired  not  only  over 
the  civilized  world,  but  which  your  missions  are  hourly  extending 
over  lawless,  mindless,  and  imbruted  regions — I own  the  awful 
presence  of  the  Godhead — nothing  less  than  a Divinity  could  have 
done  it!  The  powers,  the  prejudices,  the  superstitions  of  the  earth 
were  all  in  arms  against  it;  it  had  nor  sword  nor  sceptre — its  foun- 
der was  in  rags — its  apostles  were  lowly  fishermen — its  inspired 
prophets,  lowly  and  uneducated — its  cradle  was  a manger — its  home 
a dungeon — its  earthly  diadem  a crown  of  thorns ! And  yet,  forth 
it  went — that  lowly,  humble,  persecuted  spirit — and  the  idols  of  the 
heathen  fell;  and  the  thrones  of  the  mighty  trembled;  and  pagan- 
ism saw  her  peasants  and  her  princes  kneel  down  and  worship  the 
unarmed  Conqueror ! If  this  be  not  the  work  of  the  Divinity,  then 
I yield  to  the  reptile  ambition  of  the  atheist.  I see  no  God  above 
— I see  no  government  below,  and  I yield  my  consciousness  of  an 
immortal  soul  to  his  boasted  fraternity  with  the  worm  that  perishes ! 
But,  sir,  even  when  I thus  concede  to  him  the  divine  origin  of  our 
Christian  faith,  I arrest  him  upon  worldly  principles — I desire  him 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


207 


to  produce,  from  all  the  wisdom  of  the  earth,  so  pure  a system  of 
practical  morality — a code  of  ethics  more  sublime  in  its  conception — 
more  simple  in  its  means — more  happy  and  more  powerfnl  in  its 
operation;  and,  if  he  cannot  do  so',  I then  say  to  him,  Oh!  in  the 
name  of  your  own  darling  policy  filch  not  its  guide  from  youth,  its 
shield  from  manhood,  and  its  crutch  from  age ! Though  the  light 
I follow  may  lead  me  astray,  still  I think  it  is  light  from  Heaven ! 
The  good,  and  great,  and  wise,  are  my  companions — my  delightful 
hope  is  harmless,  if  not  holy;  and  wake  me  not  to  a disappointment, 
which  in  your  tomb  of  annihilation , I shall  not  taste  hereafter! 

The  following  extract  we  take  from  Mr.  Phillip’s  speech  delivered  at  the  annual 
meeting  of  the  British  and  Foreign  Auxiliary  Society,  London. 

My  Lord,  I will  abide  by  the  precepts,  admire  the  beauty, 
revere  the  mysteries,  and  as  far  as  in  me  lies,  practice  the  man- 
dates of  this  sacred  volume ; and  should  the  ridicule  of  earth,  and 
the  blasphemy  of  hell  assail  me,  I shall  console  myself  by  the  con- 
templation of  those  blessed  spirits,  who,  in  the  same  holy  cause, 
have  toiled,  and  shone,  and  suffered.  In  the  “ goodly  fellowship  of 
the  saints” — in  the  “noble  army  of  the  martyrs” — in  the  society  of 
the  great,  and  good,  and  wise  of  every  nation,  if  my  sinfulness  be 
not  cleansed,  and  my  darkness  illuminated,  at  least  my  pretension  - 
less  submission  may  be  excused.  If  I err  with  the  luminaries  I 
have  chosen  for  my  guides,  I confess  myself  captivated  by  the  love- 
liness of  their  aberrations.  If  they  err  it  is  in  an  heavenly  region ; 
if  they  wander,  it  is  in  fields  of  fight;  if  they  aspire,  it  is  at  all 
events  a glorious  daring ; and  rather  than  sink  with  infidelity  into 
the  dust,  I am  content  to  cheat  myself  with  their  vision  of  eternity. 
It  may,  indeed,  be  nothing  but  delusion,  hut  then  I err  with  the 
disciples  of  philosophy  and  of  virtue — with  men  who  have  drank 
deep  at  the  fountain  of  human  knowledge,  hut  who  dissolved  not 
the  pearl  of  their  salvation  in  the  draught.  I err  with  Bacon,  the 
great  Bacon,  the  great  confidant  of  nature,  fraught  with  all  the 
learning  of  the  past,  and  almost  prescient  of  the  future;  yet  too  wise 
not  to  know  his  weakness,  and  too  philosophic  not  to  feel  his  igno- 


208 


TEEASUEES  EEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


ranee.  I err  with  Milton,  rising  on  an  angel’s  wings  to  heaven, 
and  like  the  bird  of  morn,  soaring  out  of  light,  amid  the  music  of 
kis  grateful  piety.  I err  with  Locke,  whose  pure  philosophy  only 
taught  him  to  adore  its  source,  whose  warm  love  of  genuine  liberty 
was  never  chilled  into  rebellion  with  its  author.  I err  with  Newton, 
whose  star-like  spirit  shooting  athwart  the  darkness  of  the  sphere, 
too  soon  to  re-ascend  to  the  home  of  his  nativity.  With  men  like 
these,  my  lord,  I shall  remain  in  error.  * * * 

Holding  opinions  such  as  these,  I should  consider  myself  cul- 
pable, if,  at  such  a crisis,  I did  not  declare  them.  A lover  of  my 
country,  I yet  draw  a line  between  patriotism  and  rebellion.  A 
warm  friend  of  liberty  of  conscience,  I will  not  confound  toleration 
with  infidelity.  With  all  its  ambiguity,  I shall  die  in  the  doctrines 
of  the  Christian  faith;  and,  with  all  its  errors,  I am  contented  to 
live  under  the  safeguards  of  the  British  Constitution. 


Eleonora. 

I am  come  of  a race  noted  for  vigor  of  fancy  and  ardor  of 
passion.  Men  have  called  me  mad,  but  the  question  is  not  yet 
settled  whether  madness  is  or  is  not  the  loftiest  intelligence — whether 
much  that  is  glorious — whether  all  that  is  profound — does  not  spring 
from  disease  of  thought,  from  moods  of  mind  exalted  at  the  expense 
of  the  general  intellect.  They  who  dream  by  day  are  cognizant  of 
many  things  which  escape  those  who  dream  only  by  night.  In 
their  gray  visions  they  obtain  glimpses  of  eternity,  and  thrill,  in 
waking,  to  find  that  they  have  been  upon  the  verge  of  the  great  secret. 
In  snatches,  they  learn  something  of  the  wisdom  which  is  of  good, 
and  more  of  the  mere  knowledge  which  is  of  evil.  They  penetrate, 
however  rudderless  or  compassless,  into  the  vast  ocean  of  the  “light 
ineffable and  again,  like  the  adventures  of  the  Nubian  geographer, 
agressi  sunt  mare  tenebrarum  quid  in  eo  esset  exploraturi.  We  will 


i 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


209 


say,  then,  that  I am  mad.  I grant,  at  least, that  there  are  two  dis- 
tinct conditions  of  my  mental  existence — the  condition  of  a lucid 
reason,  not  to  be  disputed,  and  belonging  to  the  memory  of  events 
forming  the  first  epoch  of  my  life — and  a condition  of  shadow  and 
doubt,  appertaining  to  the  present,  and  to  the  recollection  of  what 
constitutes  the  second  great  era  of  my  being.  Therefore,  what  I 
shall  tell  of  the  earlier  period,  believe;  and  to  what  I may  relate  of 
the  later  time,  give  only  such  credit  as  may  seem  due,  or  doubt  it 
altogether;  or  if  doubt  it  ye  cannot,  then  play  unto  its  riddle  the 
(E  dipus. 

She  whom  I loved  in  youth,  and  of  whom  I now  pen  calmly 
and  distinctly  these  remembrances,  was  the  sole  daughter  of  the 
only  sister  of  my  mother  long  departed.  Eleonora  was  the  name 
of  my  cousin.  We  had  always  dwelled  together,  beneath  a tropical 
sun,  in  the  Valley  of  the  Many-Colored  Grass.  No  unguided  foot- 
step ever  came  upon  that  vale;  for  it  lay  far  away  up  among  a 
range  of  giant  hills  that  hung  beetling  around  about  it,  shutting  out 
the  sunlight  from  its  sweetest  recesses.  No  path  was  trodden  in  its 
vicinity;  and  to  reach  our  happy  home,  there  was  need  of  putting 
back,  with  force,  the  foliage  of  many  thousands  of  forest  trees,  and 
of  crushing  to  death  the  glories  of  many  millions  of  fragrant  flowers. 
Thus  it  was  that  we  lived  all  alone,  knowing  nothing  of  the  world 
without  the  valley, — I,  and  my  cousin,  and  her  mother. 

From  the  dim  regions  beyond  the  mountains  at  the  upper  end 
of  our  encircled  domain,  there  crept  out  a narrow  and  deep  river, 
brighter  than  all  save  the  eyes  of  Eleonora;  and,  winding  stealthily 
about  in  mazy  courses,  it  passed  away,  at  length,  through  a shad- 
owy gorge,  among  hills  still  dimmer  than  those  whence  it  had  issued. 
We  called  it  the  “River  of  Silence;”  for  there  seemed  to  be  a hush- 
ing influence  in  its  flow.  No  murmur  arose  from  its  bed,  and  so 
gently  it  wandered  along,  that  the  pearly  pebbles  upon  which  we  loved 
to  gaze,  far  down  within  its  bosom,  stirred  not  at  all,  but  lay  in  a 
motionless  content,  each  in  its  own  old  station,  shining  on  gloriously 
forever. 

The  margin  of  the  river,  and  of  the  many  dazzling  rivulets 
14 


210 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


that  glided  through  devious  ways  into  its  channel,  as  well  as  the 
spaces  that  extended  from  the  margins  away  down  into  the  depths 
of  the  streams  until  they  reached  the  bed  of  pebbles  at  the  bottom, — 
these  spots, not  less  than  the  whole  surface  of  the  valley,  from  the 
river  to  the  mountains  that  girdled  it  in,  were  carpeted  all  by  a soft 
green  grass,  thick, short,  perfectly  even,  and  vanilla  perfumed,  hut 
so  besprinkled  throughout  with  the  yellow  buttercup,  the  white 
daisy,  the  purple  violet,  and  the  ruby-red  asphodel,  that  its  exceed- 
ing beauty  spoke  to  our  hearts  in  loud  tones,  of  the  love  and  of  the 
glory  of  God. 

And,  here  and  there,  in  groves  about  this  grass,  like  wilder- 
nesses of  dreams,  sprang  up  fantastic  trees,  whose  tall,  slender 
stems  stood  not  upright,  but  slanted  gracefully  toward  the  light 
that  peered  at  noon-day  into  the  center  of  the  valley.  Their  bark 
was  speckled  with  the  vivid  alternate  splendor  of  ebony  and  silver, 
and  was  smoother  than  all  save  the  cheeks  of  Eleonora;  so,  that 
but  for  the  brilliant  green  of  the  huge  leaves  that  spread  from  their 
summits  in  long,  tremulous  lines,  dallying  with  the  zephyrs,  one 
might  have  fancied  them  giant  serpents  of  Syria  doing  homage  to 
their  sovereign,  the  sun. 

Hand  in  hand  about  this  valley,  for  fifteen  years,  roamed  I 
with  Eleonora  before  Love  entered  within  our  hearts.  It  was  one 
evening  at  the  close  of  the  third  lustrum  of  her  life,  and  of  the 
fourth  of  my  own,  that  we  sat,  locked  in  each  other’s  embrace,  be- 
neath the  serpent-like  trees,  and  looked  down  within  the  waters  of 
the  River  of  Silence  at  our  images  therein.  We  spoke  no  words 
during  the  rest  of  that  sweet  day,  and  our  words  even  upon  the 
morrow  were  tremulous  and  few.  We  had  drawn  the  god  Eros 
from  that  wave,  and  now  we  felt  that  he  had  enkindled  within  us 
the  fiery  souls  of  our  forefathers.  The  passions  which  had  for 
centuries  distinguished  our  race  came  thronging  with  the  fancies 
for  which  they  had  equally  noted  and  together  breathed  a delirious 
bliss  over  the  Valley  of  the  Many-Colored  Grass.  A change  fell 
upon  all  things.  Strange,  brilliant  flowers,  star- shaped,  burst  out 
upon  the  trees  where  no  flowers  had  been  known  before.  The  tints 

! 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


211 


of  the  green  carpet  deepened;  and  when,  one  by  one,  the  white 
daisies  shrank  away,  there  sprang  up  in  place  of  them  ten  by  ten 
of  the  ruby-red  asphodel,  and  life  arose  in  our  paths ; for  the  tall 
flamingo,  hitherto  unseen,  with  all  gay  glowing  birds,  flaunted  his 
scarlet  plumage  before  us.  The  golden  and  silver  fish  haunted  the 
river,  out  of  the  bosom  of  which  issued,  little  by  little,  a murmur 
that  swelled,  at  length,  into  a lulling  melody  more  divine  than  that 
of  the  harp  of  iEolus — sweeter  than  all  save  the  voice  of  Eleonora. 
And  now,  too,  a voluminous  cloud,  which  we  had  long  watched  in 
the  regions  of  Hesper,  floated  out  thence,  all  gorgeous  in  crimson 
and  gold,  and  settling  in  peace  above  us,  sank,  day  by  day,  lower 
and  lower,  until  its  edges  rested  upon  the  tops  of  the  mountains, 
turning  all  their  dimness  into  magnificence,  and  shutting  us  up, 
as  if  forever,  within  a magic  prison -house  of  grandeur  and  of  glory. 

The  loveliness  of  Eleonora  was  that  of  the  Seraphim ; hut  she 
was  a maiden  artless  and  innocent  as  the  brief  life  she  had  led  among 
the  flowers.  No  guile  disguised  the  fervor  of  love  which  animated 
her  heart,  and  she  examined  with  me  its  inmost  recesses  as  we 
walked  together  in  the  Valley  of  the  Many-Colored  Grass,  and  dis- 
coursed of  the  mighty  changes  which  had  lately  taken  place  therein. 

At  length,  having  spoken  one  day,  in  tears,  of  the  last,  sad 
change  which  must  befall  Humanity,  she  thenceforward  dwelt  only 
upon  this  one  sorrowful  theme,  interweaving  it  into  all  our  converse, 
as,  in  the  songs  of  the  bard  of  Schiraz  the  same  images  are  found 
occurring,  again  and  again,  in  every  impressive  variation  of  phrase. 

She  had  seen  that  the  finger  of  Death  was  upon  her  bosom — 
that,  like  the  ephemeron,  she  had  been  made  perfect  in  loveliness 
only  to  die;  but  the  terrors  of  the  grave,  to  her,  lay  solely  in  a con- 
sideration which  she  revealed  to  me,  one  evening  at  twilight,  by  the 
banks  of  the  River  of  Silence.  She  grieved  to  think  that,  having 
entombed  her  in  the  Valley  of  the  Many-Colored  Grass,  I would 
quit  forever  its  happy  recesses,  transferring  the  love  which  now  was 
so  passionately  her  own  to  some  maiden  of  the  outer  and  every-day 
world.  And,  then  and  there,  I threw  myself  hurriedly  at  the  feet 
of  Eleonora,  and  offered  up  a vow  to  herself  and  to  Heaven,  that 


212 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


I would  never  bind  myself  in  marriage  to  any  daughter  of  Earth — 
that  I would  in  no  manner  prove  recreant  to  her  dear  memory,  or 
to  the  memory  of  the  devout  affection  with  which  she  blessed  me. 
And  I called  the  Mighty  Euler  of  the  Universe  to  witness  the  pious 
solemnity  of  my  vow.  And  the  curse  which  I invoked  of  Him  and 
of  her,  a saint  in  Helusion,  should  1 prove  traitorous  to  that  prom- 
ise, involved  a penalty  the  exceeding  great  horror  of  which  will  not 
permit  me  to  make  a record  of  it  here.  And  the  bright  eyes  of 
Eleonora  grew  brighter  at  my  words ; and  she  sighed  as  if  a deadly 
burthen  had  been  taken  from  her  breast,  and  she  trembled  and  very 
bitterly  wept;  but  she  made  acceptance  of  the  vow,  (for  what  was  she 
but  a child?)  and  it  made  easy  to  her  the  bed  of  her  death.  And 
she  said  to  me,  not  many  days  afterward,  tranquilly  dying,  that,  be- 
cause of  what  I had  done  for  the  comfort  of  her  spirit,  she  would 
watch  over  me  in  that  spirit  when  departed,  and,  if  so  it  were  per- 
mitted her,  return  to  me  visibly  in  the  watches  of  the  night;  but, 
if  this  thing  were,  indeed,  beyond  the  power  of  the  souls  in  Para- 
dise, that  she  would,  at  least,  give  me  frequent  indications  of  her 
presence ; sighing  upon  me  in  the  evening  winds,  or  filling  the  air 
which  I breathed  with  perfume  from  the  censers  of  the  angels. 
And,  with  these  words  upon  her  lips,  she  yielded  up  her  innocent 
life,  putting  an  end  to  the  first  epoch  of  my  own. 

Thus  far  I have  faithfully  said.  But  as  I pass  the  barrier  in 
Time’s  path,  formed  by  the  death  of  my  beloved,  and  proceed  with 
the  second  era  of  my  existence,  I feel  that  a shadow  gathers  over 
my  brain,  and  I mistrust  the  perfect  sanity  of  the  record.  But  let 
me  on.  Years  dragged  themselves  along  heavily  and  still  I dwelled 
within  the  Valley  of  the  Many-Colored  Grass;  but  a second  change 
had  come  upon  all  things.  The  star-shaped  flowers  shrank  into 
the  stems  of  the  trees,  and  appeared  no  more.  The  tints  of  the 
green  carpet  faded,  and  one  by  one  ruby-red  asphodels  withered 
away;  and  there  sprang  up,  in  place  of  them,  ten  by  ten,  dark, 
eye-like  violets,  that  writhed  uneasily  and  were  ever  encumbered 
with  dew.  And  Life  departed  from  our  paths ; for  the  tall  flamingo 
flaunted  no  longer  his  scarlet  plumage  before  us,  but  flew  sadly 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


213 


from  the  vale  into  the  hills,  with  all  the  gay  glowing  birds  that 
had  arrived  in  his  company.  And  the  golden  and  silver  fish 
swam  down  through  the  gorge  at  the  lower  end  of  our  domain, 
and  bedecked  the  sweet  river  never  again.  And  the  lulling  mel- 
ody that  had  been  softer  than  the  wind-harp  of  iEolus,  and 
more  divine  than  all  save  the  voice  of  Eleonora,  it  died  little  by 
little  away,  in  murmurs  growing  lower  and  lower,  until  the  stream 
returned  at  length  utterly  into  the  solemnity  of  its  original  silence. 
And  then,  lastly,  the  voluminous  cloud  uprose,  and,  abandoning 
the  tops  of  the  mountains  to  the  dimness  of  old,  fell  back  into  the 
regions  of  Hesper,  and  took  away  all  its  manifold  golden  and  gor- 
geous glories  from  the  Valley  of  the  Many-Colored  Grass. 

Yet  the  promises  of  Eleonora  were  not  forgotten ; for  I heard 
the  sounds  of  the  swinging  of  the  censers  of  the  angels;  and  streams 
of  a holy  perfume  floated  ever  and  ever  about  the  valley ; and  at 
lone  hours,  when  my  heart  beat  heavily,  the  winds  that  bathed 
my  brow  came  unto  me  laden  with  soft  sighs;  and  indistinct 
murmurs  filled  of  ten  the  night  air ; and  once — oh,  but  once  only! 
I was  awakened  from  a slumber,  like  the  slumber  of  death,  by  the 
pressing  of  spiritual  lips  upon  my  own. 

But  the  void  within  my  heart  refused,  even  then,  to  be  filled. 
I longed  for  the  love  which  had  before  filled  it  to  overflowing.  At 
length  the  valley  pained  me  through  its  memories  of  Eleonora,  and 
I left  it  forever  for  the  vanities  and  the  turbulent  triumphs  of  the 
world. 

^ ^ 7^  vfc 

I found  myself  within  a strange  city,  where  all  things  might 
have  served  to  blot  from  recollection  the  sweet  dreams  I had 
dreamed  so  long  in  the  Valley  of  the  Many  Colored  Grass.  The 
pomps  and  pageantries  of  a stately  court,  and  the  mad  clangor  of 
arms,  and  the  radiant  loveliness  of  woman,  bewildered  and  intoxi- 
cated my  brain.  But  as  yet  my  soul  had  proved  true  to  its  vows, 
and  the  indications  of  the  presence  of  Eleonora  were  still  given  me 
in  the  silent  hours  of  the  night.  Suddenly,  these  manifestations 
ceased;  and  the  world  grew  dark  before  mine  eyes;  and  I stood 


214  TEEASUEES  PEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 

aghast  at  the  burning  thoughts  which  possessed — at  the  terrible 
temptations  which  beset  me;  for  there  came  from  some  far,  far 
distant  and  unknown  land,  into  the  gay  court  of  the  king  I served, 
a maiden  to  whose  beauty  my  whole  recreant  heart  yielded  at  once 
— at  whose  footstool  I bowed  down  without  a struggle,  in  the 
most  ardent,  in  the  most  abject  worship  of  love.  What,  in- 
deed, was  my  passion  for  the  young  girl  of  the  valley  in  compari- 
son with  the  fervor,  and  the  delirium,  and  the  spirit-lifting  ecstacy 
of  adoration  with  which  I poured  out  my  whole  soul  in  tears  at  the 
feet  of  the  ethereal  Ermengarde?  Oh,  bright  was  the  seraph 
Ermengarde ! and  in  that  knowledge  I had  room  for  none  other. 
Oh,  divine  was  the  angel  Ermengarde!  and  as  I looked  down  into 
the  depths  of  her  memorial  eyes,  I thought  only  of  them — and  of 
her  I wedded ; nor  dreaded  the  curse  I had  invoked ; and  its  bitter- 
ness was  not  visited  upon  me.  And  once — but  once  again  in  the 
silence  of  the  night,  there  came  through  my  lattice  the  soft  sighs 
which  had  forsaken  me;  and  they  modeled  themselves  into  famil- 
iar and  sweet  voice,  saying: 

“ Sleep  in  peace ! — for  the  Spirit  of  Love  reigneth  and  ruleth, 
and  in  taking  to  thy  passionate  heart  her  who  is  Ermengarde,  thou 
art  absolved,  for  reasons  which  shall  be  made  known  to  thee  in 
Heaven,  of  thy  vows  unto  Eleonora. ” 


TEEASUBES  FEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


215 


English  Language. 

The  language  which,  at  the  very  beginning  of  its  full  organ- 
ization, could  produce  the  linked  sweetness  of  Sidney  and  the 
“mighty  line”  of  Marlowe,  the  voluptuous  beauty  of  Spenser  and 
the  oceanic  melody  of  Shakespere,  and  which,  at  a riper  age,  could 
show  itself  an  adequate  instrument  for  the  organ-like  harmonies 
of  Milton  and  the  matchless  symphonies  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne; 
which  could  give  full  and  fit  expression  to  the  fiery  energy  of  Dryden 
and  the  epigrammatic  point  of  Pope,  to  the  forest-like  gloom  of  Young 
and  the  passionate  outpourings  of  Burns;  which  sustained  and  sup- 
ported the  tremulous  elegance  and  husbanded  strength  of  Campbell, 
the  broad-winged  sweep  of  Coleridge,  the  deep  sentiment  and  all- 
embracing  humanities  of  Wordsworth  and  the  gorgeous  emblazonry 
of  Moore;  and  which  to-day,  in  the  plenitude  of  its  powers,  responds 
to  every  call  of  Tennyson,  Buskin,  Newman,  and  Froude, — is 
surely  equal  to  the  demands  of  any  genius  that  may  yet  arise  to  tax 
its  powers.  Spoken  in  the  time  of  Elizabeth  by  a million  fewer 
persons  than  to-day  speak  it  in  London  alone,  it  now  girdles  the 
earth  with  its  electric  chain  of  communication,  and  voices  the 
thoughts  of  a hundred  million  of  souls.  It  has  crossed  the  peaks 
of  the  Bocky  Mountains,  and  has  invaded  South  America  and  the 
Sandwich  Islands;  it  is  advancing  with  giant  strides  through  Africa 
and  New  Zealand,  and  on  the  scorching  plains  of  India;  it  is  pen- 
etrating the  wild  waste  of  Australia,  making  inroads  upon  China 
and  Japan,  and  bids  fair  to  become  the  dominant  language  of  the 
civilized  world.  Let  us  jealously  guard  its  purity,  maintain  its 
ancient  idioms,  and  develop  its  inexhaustible  resources,  that  it  may 
be  even  more  worthy  than  it  now  is  to  be  the  mother  tongue,  not 
only  of  the  two  great  brother  nations  whose  precious  legacy  it  is, 
but  of  the  whole  family  of  man. 


216 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


LIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES  was  born  at  Cambridge, 


Mass.,  August  29,  1809,  and  at  this  time  (1882)  he  occu- 


pies the  chair  of  Anatomy  and  Physiology  in  Harvard  Uni- 
versity. At  the  age  of  twenty,  Holmes  graduated  at  Har- 
vard and  commenced  the  study  of  law.  Law  was  soon 
abandoned  for  medicine.  He  studied  in  Europe,  and  in  1836 
graduated  at  Cambridge  as  Doctor  of  Medicine.  In  1838  he 
became  professor  of  Anatomy  and  Physiology  in  Dartmouth 
College,  and  in  1847  accepted  the  same  position  at  Harvard. 

The  following  are  among  his  literary  works : Poetry,  a 
Metrical  Essay;  Terpsichore;  Urania;  Astrcea.  The  above 
poems  were  delivered  before  college  and  literary  societies. 
He  is  also  author  of  three  excellent  works,  entitled : Autocrat 
of  the  Breakfast  Table;  The  Professor  at  the  Breakfast  Table , 
and  The  Poet  at  the  Breakfast  Table.  Three  other  well  known 
works  of  his  are  Elsie  Venner,  published  in  1861 ; The  Guar- 
dian Angel,  in  1868 ; Mechanism  in  Thought  and  Morals,  in 


Besides  his  excellent  literary  works  already  noted,  he  is 
author  of  valuable  medical  works. 

Although  not  a literary  man  by  profession,  yet  he  has 
written  extensively,  and  has  gained  a high  position  in  the 
literary  world.  His  composition  is  always  smooth  and  grace- 
ful, and  many  of  his  sayings  are  among  the  finest  specimens 
of  American  humor. 

Holmes  combines  science  and  philosophy,  wit  and  hu- 


1872. 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


217 


mor,  in  poetry  and  prose,  in  a most  happy  and  brilliant 
manner.  His  poems,  written  for  class  reunions  and  other 
special  occasions,  are  so  happy  that  they  make  Holmes  “ the 
fountain  of  perpetual  youth”  in  American  literature. 


218 


TBEASUBES  EBOM  THE  PBOSE  WORLD. 


Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast-Table. 

[The  “Atlantic”  obeys  the  moon,  and  its  luniversary  has  come 
round  again.  I have  gathered  up  some  hasty  notes  of  my  remarks 
made  since  the  last  high  tides,  which  I respectfully  submit.  Please 
to  remember  this  is  talk;  just  as  easy  and  just  as  formal  as  I choose 
to  make  it.] 

I never  saw  an  author  in  my  life — saving,  perhaps,  one — that 
did  not  purr  as  audibly  as  a full  grown  domestic  cat,  on  having  his 
fur  smoothed  in  the  right  way  by  a skilful  hand. 

But  let  me  give  you  a caution.  Be  very  careful  how  you  tell 
an  author  he  is  droll.  Ten  to  one  he  will  hate  you;  and  if  he 
does,  be  sure  he  can  do  you  a mischief,  and  very  probably  will. 
Say  you  cried  over  his  romance  or  his  verses,  and  he  will  love  you 
and  send  you  a copy.  You  can  laugh  over  that  as  much  as  you 
like — in  private. 

Wonder  why  authors  and  actors  are  ashamed  of  being  funny? 
Why,  there  are  obvious  reasons,  and  deep  philosophical  ones.  The 
clown  knows  very  well  that  the  women  are  not  in  love  with  him, 
but  with  Hamlet,  the  fellow  in  black  cloak  and  plumed  hat.  Pas- 
sion never  laughs.  The  wit  knows  that  his  place  is  at  the  tail  of 
a procession. 

If  you  want  the  deep,  underlying  reason,  I must  take  more 
time  to  tell  it.  There  is  a perfect  consciousness  in  every  form  of 
wit — using  that  term  in  its  general  sense — that  its  essence  consists 
in  a partial  and  incomplete  view  of  whatever  it  touches.  It  throws 
a single  ray,  separated  from  the  rest — red,  yellow,  blue,  or  any 
intermediate  shade, — upon  an  object;  never  white  light;  that  is  the 
province  of  wisdom.  We  get  beautiful  effects  from  wit, — all  the 
prismatic  colors, —but  never  the  object  as  it  is  in  fair  daylight.  A 
pun,  which  is  a kind  of  wit,  is  a different  and  much  shallower  trick 
in  mental  optics,  throwing  the  shadows  of  two  objects  so  that  one 
overlies  the  other.  Poetry  uses  the  rainbow  tints  for  special  effects, 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


210 


but  always  keeps  its  essential  object  in  the  purest  white  light  of 
truth.  Will  you  allow  me  to  pursue  this  subject  a little  further? 

[They  didn’t  allow  me  at  that  time,  for  somebody  happened  to 
scrape  the  floor  with  his  chair  just  then;  which  accidental  sound, 
as  all  must  have  noticed,  has  the  instantaneous  effect  that  the  cut- 
ting of  the  yellow  hair  by  Iris  had  upon  inflexible  Dido.  It  broke 
the  charm,  and  that  breakfast  was  over]. 

Don’t  flatter  yourselves  that  friendship  authorizes  you  to  say 
disagreeable  things  to  your  intimates.  On  the  contrary,  the  nearer 
you  come  into  relation  with  a person,  the  more  necessary  do  tact 
and  courtesy  become.  Except  in  cases  of  necessity,  which  are 
rare,  leave  your  friend  to  learn  unpleasant  truths  from  his  enemies; 
they  are  ready  enough  to  tell  them.  Good  breeding  never  forgets 
amour  propre  is  universal.  When  you  read  the  story  of  the  Arch- 
bishop and  Gil  Bias,  you  may  laugh,  if  you  will,  at  the  poor  old 
man’s  delusion;  but  don’t  forget  that  the  youth  was  the  greater 
fooJ  of  the  two,  and  that  his  master  served  such  a booby  rightly  in 
turning  him  out  of  doors. 

You  need  not  get  up  a rebellion  against  what  I say,  if  you  find 
everything  in  my  sayings  is  not  exactly  new.  You  can’t  possibly 
mistake  a man  who  means  to  he  honest,  for  a literary  pickpocket. 
I once  read  an  introductory  lecture  that  looked  to  me  too  learned 
for  its  latitude.  On  examination,  I found  all  its  erudition  was 
taken  ready  made  from  D’lsraeli.  If  I had  been  ill-natured,  I 
should  have  shown  up  the  little  great  man,  who  had  once  belabored 
me  in  his  feeble  way.  But  one  can  generally  tell  these  wholesale 
thieves  easily  enough,  and  they  are  not  worth  the  trouble  of  put- 
ting them  in  the  pillory.  I doubt  the  entire  novelty  of  my  remarks 
just  made  on  telling  unpleasant  truths,  yet  I am  not  conscious  of 
any  larceny. 

Neither  make  too  much  of  flaws  and  occasional  over  statements. 
Some  persons  seem  to  think  that  absolute  truth,  in  the  form  of 
rigidly  stated  propositions,  is  all  that  conversation  admits.  This 
is  precisely  as  if  a musician  should  insist  on  having  nothing  but 
perfect  chords  and  simple  melodies, — no  diminished  fifths,  no  flat 


220 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


sevenths,  no  flourishes,  on  any  account.  Now  it  is  fair  to  say, 
that,  just  as  music  must  have  all  these,  so  conversation  must  have 
its  partial  truths,  its  embellished  truths,  its  exaggerated  truths. 
It  is  in  its  higher  forms  an  artistic  product,  and  admits  the  deal 
element  as  much  as  pictures  or  statues.  One  man  who  is  a little 
too  literal  can  spoil  the  talk  of  a whole  table  full  of  men  of  esprit. 
“Yes,”  you  say,  “but  who  wants  to  hear  fanciful  people’s  nonsense? 
Put  the  facts  to  it,  and  then  see  where  it  is!”  Certainly,  if  a man 
is  too  fond  of  paradox, — if  he  is  flighty  and  empty, — if,  instead  cf 
striking  those  fifths  and  sevenths,  those  harmonious  discords,  often 
so  much  better  than  the  twinned  octaves,  in  the  music  of  thought, 
if,  instead  of  striking  these,  he  jangles  the  chords,  stick  a fact  into 
him  like  a stiletto.  But  remember  that  talking  is  one  of  the  fine 
arts, — the  noblest,  the  most  important,  and  the  most  difficult, — 
and  that  its  fluent  harmonies  may  he  spoiled  by  the  intrusion  of  a 
single  harsh  note.  Therefore  conversation  which  is  suggestive 
rather  than  argumentative,  which  lets  out  the  most  of  each  talker’s 
results  of  thoughts,  is  commonly  the  pleasantest  and  the  most 
profitable.  It  is  not  easy,  at  the  best,  for  two  persons  talking  to- 
gether to  make  the  most  of  each  other’s  thoughts,  there  are  so 
many  of  them. 

[The  company  looked  as  if  they  wanted  an  explanation] . 

When  John  and  Thomas,  for  instance,  are  talking  together,  it 
is  natural  enough  that  among  the  six  there  should  be  more  or  less 
confusion  and  misapprehension. 

[Our  landlady  turned  pale ; no  doubt  she  thought  there  was  a 
screw  loose  in  my  intellect, — and  that  involved  the  probable  loss 
of  a boarder.  A severe  looking  person,  who  wears  a Spanish  cloak 
and  a sad  cheek,  fluted  by  the  passions  of  the  melodrama,  whom  I 
understand  to  be  the  professional  ruffian  of  the  neighboring  thea- 
ter, alluded,  with  a certain  lifting  of  the  brow,  drawing  down  the 
corners  of  the  mouth,  and  somewhat  rasping  voce  di  petto , to  Fal- 
staff’s  nine  men  in  buckram.  Everybody  looked  up;  I believe  the 
old  gentleman  opposite  was  afraid  I should  seize  the  carving-knife; 
at  any  rate,  he  slid  it  to  one  side,  as  it  were  carelessly.] 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


221 


I think,  I said,  I can  make  it  plain  to  Benjamin  Franklin  here, 
that  there  are  at  least  six  personalities  distinctly  to  be  recognized  as 
taking  part  in  that  dialogue  between  John  and  Thomas. 

'I  1.  The  real  John;  known  only  to  his  Maker. 

2.  John’s  ideal  John;  never  the  real  one,  and 
Three  Johns.  often  very  unlike  him. 

I 3.  Thomas’s  ideal  John;  never  the  real  John, 

J nor  John’s  John,  but  often  very  unlike  either. 

1 1.  The  real  Thomas. 

Three  Thomases,  v 2.  Thomas’s  ideal  Thomas. 

) 3.  John’s  ideal  Thomas. 

Only  one  of  the  three  Johns  is  taxed;  only  one  can  be  weighed 
on  a platform  balance;  but  the  other  two  are  just  as  important  in 
the  conversation.  Let  us  suppose  the  real  John  to  be  old,  dull,  and 
ill-looking.  But  as  the  Higher  Powers  have  not  conferred  on  men 
the  seeing  themselves  in  the  true  light,  John  very  possibly  con- 
ceives himself  to  he  youthful,  witty,  and  fascinating,  and  talks 
from  the  point  of  view  of  this  ideal.  Thomas,  again,  believes  him 
to  he  an  artful  rogue,  we  will  say;  therefore  he  is,  so  far  as  Thom- 
as’s attitude  in  the  conversation  is  concerned,  an  artful  rogue, 
though  really  simple  and  stupid.  The  same  conditions  apply  to 
the  three  Thomases.  It  follows,  that,  until  a man  can  he  found 
who  knows  himself  as  his  Maker  knows  him,  or  who  sees  himself 
as  others  see  him,  there  must  be  at  least  six  persons  engaged  in 
every  dialogue  between  two.  Of  these,  the  least  important,  phil- 
osophically speaking,  is  the  one  that  we  have  called  the  real  person. 
No  wonder  two  disputants  often  get  angry,  when  there  are  six  of 
them  talking  and  listening  all  at  the  same  time. 

[A  very  unphilosophical  application  of  the  above  remarks  was 
made  by  a young  fellow,  answering  to  the  name  of  John,  who  sits 
near  me  at  the  table.  A certain  basket  of  peaches,  a rare  vegeta- 
ble, little  known  to  boarding-houses,  was  on  its  way  to  me  via  this 
unlettered  Johannes.  He  appropriated  the  three  that  remained  in 
the  basket,  remarking  that  there  was  just  one  piece  for  him.  I 
convinced  him  that  his  practical  inference  was  hasty  and  illogical, 
but  in  the  meantime  he  had  eaten  the  peaches.] 


222 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


The  opinions  of  relatives  as  to  a man’s  powers  are  very  com- 
monly of  little  value ; not  merely  because  they  sometimes  overrate 
their  own  flesh  and  blood,  as  some  may  suppose;  on  the  contrary, 
they  are  quite  as  likely  to  underrate  those  whom  they  have  grown 
into  the  habit  of  considering  like  themselves.  The  advent  of 
genius  is  like  what  florists  style  the  breaking  of  a seedling  tulip  in- 
to what  we  may  call  high-caste  colors, — ten  thousand  dingy  flowers, 
then  one  with  the  divine  streak;  or,  if  you  prefer  it,  like  the  com- 
ing up  in  old  Jacob’s  garden  of  that  most  gentlemanly  little  fruit, 
the  seek  el  pear,  which  I have  sometimes  seen  in  shop  windows.  It 
is  a surprise,- — there  is  nothing  to  account  for  it.  All  at  once  we 
find  that  twice  two  make  five.  Nature  is  fond  of  what  is  called 
“gift  enterprises.”  This  little  hook  of  life  which  she  has  given  in- 
to the  hands  of  its  joint  possessors  is  commonly  one  of  the  old  story 
hooks  bound  over  again.  Only  once  in  a great  while  there  is  a 
stately  poem  in  it,  or  its  leaves  are  illuminated  with  the  glories  of 
art,  or  they  enfold  a draft  for  untold  values  signed  by  the  million- 
fold millionaire  old  mother  herself.  But  strangers  are  commonly 
the  first  to  find  the  “gift”  that  came  with  the  little  hook. 


Jerusalem. 

The  broad  noon  lingers  on  the  summit  of  Mount  Olivet,  but  its 
beam  has  long  left  the  garden  of  Gethsemane  and  the  tomb  of  Absa- 
lom, the  waters  of  Kedron  and  the  dark  abyss  of  Jehosaphat.  Full 
falls  its  splendor,  however,  on  the  opposite  city,  vivid  and  defined 
in  its  silver  blaze.  A lofty  wall,  with  turrets  and  towers  and  fre- 
quent gates,  undulates  with  the  unequal  ground  which  it  covers,  as 
it  encircles  the  lost  capital  of  Jehovah.  It  is  a city  of  hills  far  more 
famous  than  those  of  Rome ; for  all  Europe  has  heard  of  Zion  and 
of  Calvary,  while  the  Arab  and  the  Assyrian,  and  the  tribes  and 
nations  beyond,  are  as  ignorant  of  the  Capitolan  and  Aventine 
Mounts  as  they  are  of  the  Malvern  or  the  Chiltern  Hills. 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


223 


The  broad  steep  of  Sion  crowned  with  the  tower  of  David; 
nearer  still,  Mount  Moriah,  with  the  gorgeous  temple  of  the  God  of 
Abraham,  but  built,  alas ! by  the  child  of  Hagar,  and  not  by  Sarah’s 
chosen  one ; close  to  its  cedars  and  its  cypresses,  its  lofty  spires  and 
airy  arches,  the  moonlight  falls  upon  Bethesda’s  pool;  further  on, 
entered  by  the  gate  of  St.  Stephen,  the  eye,  though  ’tis  the  noon  of 
night,  traces  with  ease  the  Street  of  Grief,  a long,  winding  ascent 
to  a vast  cupolaed  pile  that  now  covers  Calvary — called  the  Street 
of  Grief  because  there  the  most  illustrious  of  the  human,  as  well 
as  of  the  Hebrew  race,  the  descendant  of  King  David,  and  the  divine 
son  of  the  favored  of  women,  twice  sank  under  that  burden  of  suf- 
fering and  shame  which  is  now  throughout  all  Christendom  the 
emblem  of  triumph  and  of  honor;  passing  over  groups  and  masses 
of  houses  built  of  stone,  with  terraced  roofs,  or  surmounted  with 
small  domes,  we  reach  the  hill  of  Salem,  where  Melchisedek  built 
his  mystic  citadel;  and  still  remains  the  hill  of  Scopas,  where  Titus 
gazed  upon  Jerusalem  on  the  eve  of  his  final  assault.  Titus  de- 
stroyed the  temple.  The  religion  of  Judea  has  in  turn  subverted 
the  fanes  which  were  raised  to  his  father  and  to  himself  in  their 
imperial  capital;  and  the  God  of  Abraham,  of  Isaac,  and  of  Jacob, 
is  now  worshiped  before  every  altar  in  Rome.  Jerusalem  by  moon- 
light ! ’Tis  a fine  spectacle,  apart  from  all  its  indissoluble  associa- 
tions of  awe  and  beauty.  The  mitigating  hour  softens  the  austerity 
of  a mountain  landscape  magnificent  in  outline,  however  harsh  and 
severe  in  detail;  and,  while  it  retains  all  its  sublimity,  removes 
much  of  the  savage  sternness  of  the  strange  and  unrivaled  scene. 

A fortified  city,  almost  surrounded  by  ravines,  and  rising  in 
the  center  of  chains  of  far- spreading  hills,  occasionally  offering,' 
through  their  rocky  glens,  the  gleams  of  a distant  and  richer  land! 

The  moon  has  sunk  behind  the  Mount  of  Olives,  and  the  stars 
in  the  darker  sky  shine  doubly  bright  over  the  sacred  city.  The 
all-pervading  stillness  is  broken  by  a breeze  that  seems  to  have 
traveled  over  the  plain  of  Sharon  from  the  sea.  It  wails  among 
the  tombs  and  sighs  among  the  cypress  groves.  The  palm-tree 
trembles  as  it  passes,  as  if  it  were  a spirit  of  woe.  Is  it  the  breeze 


224 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


that  has  traveled  over  the  plains  of  Sharon  from  the  sea?  Or  is 
it  the  haunting  voice  of  prophets  mourning  over  the  city  that  they 
could  not  save?  Their  spirits  surely  would  linger  on  the  land  where 
their  Creator  had  deigned  to  dwell,  and  over  whose  impending 
fate  Omnipotence  had  shed  human  tears.  From  this  mount  who 
can  but  believe  that,  at  the  midnight  hour,  from  the  summit  of  the 
Ascension,  the  great  departed  of  Israel  assemble  to  gaze  upon  the 
battlements  of  their  mystic  city?  There  might  be  counted  heroes 
and  sages,  who  need  shrink  from  no  rivalry  with  the  brightest  and 
wisest  of  other  lands ; but  the  lawgiver  of  the  time  of  the  Pharaohs, 
whose  laws  are  still  obeyed;  the  monarch  whose  reign  has  ceased 
for  three  thousand  years,  but  whose  wisdom  is  a proverb  in  all 
nations  of  the  earth;  the  teacher,  whose  doctrines  have  modeled 
civilized  Europe — the  greatest  of  legislators,  the  greatest  of  admin- 
istrators, and  the  greatest  of  reformers — what  race,  extinct  or  liv- 
ing, can  produce  three  such  men  as  these? 

The  last  light  is  extinguished  in  the  village  of  Bethany.  The 
wailing  breeze  has  become  a moaning  wind;  a white  film  spreads 
over  the  purple  sky;  the  stars  are  veiled;  the  stars  are  hid;  all  be- 
comes as  dark  as  the  waters  of  Kedron  and  the  valley  of  Jehosaphat. 
The  tower  of  David  merges  into  obscurity;  no  longer  glitter  the 
minarets  of  the  mosque  of  Omar;  Bethesda’s  angelic  waters,  the 
gate  of  Stephen,  the  street  of  sacred  sorrow,  the  hill  of  Salem,  and 
the  heights  of  Scopas,  can  no  longer  be  discerned.  Alone  in  the 
increasing  darkness,  while  the  line  of  the  very  walls  gradually 
eludes  the  eye,  the  church  of  the  Holy  Sepulcher  is  a beacon  light. 

And  why  is  the  church  of  the  Holy  Sepulcher  a beacon  light? 
Why,  when  it  is  already  past  the  noon  of  darkness,  when  every 
soul  slumbers  in  Jerusalem,  and  not  a sound  disturbs  the  deep 
repose  except  the  howl  of  the  wild  dog  crying  to  the  wilder  wind- 
why  is  the  cupola  of  the  sanctuary  illumined,  though  the  hour 
has  long  since  been  numbered  when  the  pilgrims  there  kneel  and 
the  monks  pray? 

An  armed  Turkish  guard  are  bivouacked  in  the  court  of  the 
church;  within  the  church  itself  two  brethren  of  the  convent  of 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


225 


Terra  Santa  keep  holy  watch  and  ward,  while  at  the  tomb  beneath 
there  kneels  a solitary  youth,  who  prostrated  himself  at  sunset,  and 
who  will  there  pass  unmoved  the  whole  of  the  sacred  night. 

Yet  the  pilgrim  is  not  in  communion  with  the  Latin  church; 
neither  is  he  of  the  Church  Armenian,  or  the  Church  Greek;  Ma- 
ronite,  Coptic,  or  Abyssinian — these  also  are  Christian  churches 
which  cannot  call  him  child.  He  comes  from  a distant  and  a 
northern  isle  to  bow  before  the  tomb  of  a descendant  of  the  kings 
of  Israel,  because  he,  in  common  with  all  the  people  of  that  isle, 
recognizes  in  that  sublime  Hebrew  incarnation  the  presence  of  a 
Divine  Redeemer.  Then  why  does  he  come  alone?  It  is  not  that 
he  has  availed  himself  of  the  inventions  of  modern  science,  to 
repair  first  to  a spot  which  all  his  countrymen  may  equally  desire 
to  visit,  and  thus  anticipate  their  hurrying  arrival.  Before  the 
inventions  of  modern  science,  all  his  countrymen  used  to  flock 
hither.  Then  why  do  they  not  now?  Is  the  Holy  Land  no  longer 
hallowed?  Is  it  not  the  land  of  sacred  and  mysterious  truths? 
The  land  of  heavenly  messages  and  earthly  miracles?  The  land  of 
prophets  and  apostles?  Is  it  not  the  land  upon  whose  mountains 
the  Creator  of  the  universe  parleyed  with  man,  and  the  flesh  of 
whose  anointed  race  He  mystically  assumed  when  he  struck 
the  last  blow  at  the  powers  of  evil?  Is  it  to  be  believed  that  there 
are  no  peculiar  and  eternal  qualities  in  a land  thus  visited,  which 
distinguished  it  from  all  others — that  Palestine  is  like  Normandy, 
or  Yorkshire,  or  even  Attica  or  Rome? 

There  may  be  some  who  maintain  this ; there  have  been  some, 
and  those,  too,  among  the  wisest  and  the  wittiest  of  the  northern 
and  western  races,  who,  touched  by  a presumptuous  jealousy  of  the 
long  predominance  of  that  oriental  intellect  to  which  they  owed 
their  civilization,  would  have  persuaded  themselves  and  the  world 
that  the  traditions  of  Sinai  and  Calvary  were  fables.  Half  a cen- 
tury ago  Europe  made  a violent  and  apparently  successful  effort  to 
disembarrass  itself  of  its  Asian  faith.  The  most  powerful  and  the 
most  civilized  of  its  kingdoms,  about  to  conquer  the  rest,  shut  up 

its  churches,  desecrated  its  altars,  massacred  and  persecuted  their 
15 


226 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


sacred  servants,  and  announced  that  the  Hebrew  creeds  which 
Simon  Peter  brought  from  Palestine,  and  which  his  successors 
revealed  to  Clovis,  were  a mockery  and  a fiction.  What  has  been 
the  result?  In  every  city,  town,  village  and  hamlet  of  that  great 
kingdom,  the  divine  image  of  the  most  illustrious  of  Hebrews  has 
been  again  raised  amid  the  homage  of  kneeling  millions ; while  in 
the  heart  of  its  bright  and  witty  capital  the  nation  has  erected  the 
most  gorgeous  of  modern  temples,  and  consecrated  its  marble  and 
golden  walls  to  the  name,  and  memory,  and  celestial  efficacy  of  a 
Hebrew  woman.  The  country  of  which  the  solitary  pilgrim,  kneel- 
ing at  this  moment  at  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  was  a native,  had  not 
actively  shared  in  that  insurrection  against  the  first  and  second  Tes- 
tament which  distinguished  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century.  But 
more  than  six  hundred  years  before,  it  had  sent  its  king  and  the 
flower  of  its  peers  and  people,  to  rescue  Jerusalem  from  those  whom 
they  considered  infidels!  and  now,  instead  of  the  third  crusade, 
they  expand  their  superfluous  energies  in  the  construction  of  rail- 
roads. 

The  failure  of  the  European  kingdom  of  Jerusalem,  on  which 
such  vast  treasure,  such  prodigies  of  valor  and  such  ardent  belief 
had  been  wasted,  has  been  one  of  those  circumstances  which  have 
tended  to  disturb  the  faith  of  Europe,  although  it  should  have  car- 
ded convictions  of  a very  different  character.  The  Crusaders  looked 
upon  the  Saracens  as  infidels,  whereas  the  children  of  the  desert 
bore  a much  nearer  affinity  to  the  sacred  corpse  that  had,  for  a brief 
space,  consecrated  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  than  any  of  the  invading 
host  of  Europe.  The  same  blood  flowed  in  their  veins,  and  they 
recognized  the  divine  missions  both  of  Moses  and  of  his  greater  suc- 
cessor. In  an  age  so  deficient  in  physiological  learning  as  the 
twelfth  century,  the  mysteries  of  race  were  unknown.  Jerusalem, 
it  cannot  be  doubted,  will  ever  remain  the  appendage  either  of  Israel 
or  of  Ishmael;  and  if,  in  the  course  of  those  great  vicissitudes 
which  are  no  doubt  impending  for  the  East,  there  be  any  attempt  to 
place  upon  the  throne  of  David  a prince  of  the  House  of  Coburg  or 
Peuxponts,  the  same  fate  will  doubtless  await  him,  as,  with  all 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


227 


their  brilliant  qualities  and  all  the  sympathy  of  Europe,  was  the 
final  doom  of  the  Godfreys,  the  Baldwins,  and  the  Lusignans. 


Pictures  of  Swiss  Scenery  and  of  the  City  of 
Venice. 

It  was  in  Switzerland  that  I first  felt  how  constantly  to  con- 
template sublime  creation  develops  the  poetic  power.  It  was  here 
that  I first  began  to  study  nature.  Those  forests  of  black,  gigantic 
pines  rising  out  of  the  deep  snows;  those  tall,  white  cataracts,  leap- 
ing like  headstrong  youth  into  the  world,  and  dashing  from  their 
precipices  as  if  allured  by  the  beautiful  delusion  of  their  own  rain- 
bow mist;  those  mighty  clouds  sailing  beneath  my  feet,  or  clinging 
to  the  bosoms  of  the  dark  green  mountains,  or  boiling  up  like  a 
spell  from  the  invisible  and  unfathomable  depths;  the  fell  ava- 
lanche, fleet  as  a spirit  of  evil,  terrific  when  it  suddenly  breaks  up- 
on the  almighty  silence,  scarcely  less  terrible  when  we  gaze  upon 
its  crumbling  and  pallid  frame,  varied  only  by  the  presence  of  one 
or  two  blasted  firs;  the  head  of  a mountain  loosening  from  its 
brother  peak,  rooting  up,  in  the  roar  of  its  rapid  rush,  a whole  for- 
est of  pines,  and  covering  the  earth  for  miles  with  elephantine 
masses ; the  supernatural  extent  of  landscape  that  opens  to  us  new 
worlds ; the  strong  eagles  and  the  strange  wild  birds  that  suddenly 
cross  you  in  your  path,  and  stare,  and  shrieking  fly — and  all  the 
soft  sights  of  joy  and  loveliness  that  mingle  with  these  sublime  and 
savage  spectacles,  the  rich  pastures  and  the  numerous  flocks,  and 
the  golden  bees  and  the  wild  flowers,  and  the  carved  and  painted 
cottages,  and  the  simple  manner  and  the  primeval  grace — wherever 
I moved,  I was  in  turn  appalled  or  enchanted ; but  whatever  I be- 
held, new  images  ever  sprang  up  in  my  mind,  and  new  feelings 
ever  crowded  on  my  fancy.  • • • • 

If  I were  to  assign  the  particular  quality  which  conduces  to 
that  dreamy  and  voluptuous  existence  which  men  of  high  imagina- 


228 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


tion  experience  in  Venice,  I should  describe  it  as  the  feeling  of 
abstraction,  which  is  remarkable  in  that  city,  and  peculiar  to  it. 
Venice  is  the  only  city  which  can  yield  the  magical  delights  of  soli- 
tude. All  is  still  and  silent.  No  rude  sound  disturbs  your  reveries ; 
fancy,  therefore,  is  not  put  to  flight.  No  rude  sound  distracts  your 
self-consciousness.  This  renders  existence  intense.  We  feel  every- 
thing. And  we  feel  thus  keenly  in  a city  not  only  eminently  beau- 
tiful, not  only  abounding  in  wonderful  creations  of  art,  hut  each 
step  of  which  is  hallowed  ground,  quick  with  associations,  that  in 
their  more  various  nature,  their  nearer  relation  to  ourselves,  and 
perhaps  their  more  picturesque  character,  exercise  a greater  influ- 
ence over  the  imagination  than  the  more  antique  story  of  Greece 
and  Rome.  We  feel  all  this  in  a city, too,  which,  although  her  lus- 
ter he  indeed  dimmed,  can  still  count  among  her  daughters,  maidens 
fairer  than  the  orient  pearls  with  which  her  warriors  once  loved  to 
deck  them.  Poetry,  Tradition,  and  Love — these  are  the  Graces 
that  invested  with  an  ever  charming  cestus  this  Aphrodite  of  cities. 


A Good  Man’s  Day. 

Every  day  is  a little  life ; and  our  whole  life  is  hut  a day 
repeated;  whence  it  is  that  old  Jacob  numbers  his  life  by  days; 
Moses  desires  to  be  taught  this  point  of  holy  arithmetic,  to  number 
not  his  years,  but  his  days.  Those,  therefore,  that  dare  lose  a day, 
are  dangerously  prodigal;  those  that  dare  misspend  it,  desperate. 
We  can  best  teach  others  by  ourselves;  let  me  tell  your  lordship 
how  I would  pass  my  days,  whether  common  or  sacred,  that  you 
(or  whosoever  others  overhearing  me,)  may  either  approve  my 
thriftiness,  or  correct  my  errors;  to  whom  is  the  account  of  my 
hours  either  more  due,  or  more  known.  All  days  are  His  who 
gave  time  a beginning  and  continuance;  yet  some  He  hath  made 
ours,  not  to  command,  but  to  use. 

In  none  may  we  forget  him;  in  some  we  must  forget  all  be- 


i 


TREASURES  EROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


229 


sides  Him.  First,  therefore,  I desire  to  wake  at  those  hours,  not 
when  I will,  hut  when  I must;  pleasure  is  not  a fit  rule  for  rest, 
but  health;  neither  do  I consult  so  much  with  the  sun,  as  mine 
own  necessity,  whether  of  body  or  in  that  of  mind.  If  this  vassal 
could  well  serve  me  waking,  it  should  never  sleep ; but  now  it  must 
be  pleased,  that  it  may  be  serviceable.  Now,  when  sleep  is  rather 
driven  away  than  leaves  me,  I would  ever  awake  with  God;  my 
first  thoughts  are  for  Him  who  hath  made  the  night  for  rest  and 
the  day  for  travel;  and  as  He  gives,  so  blesses  both.  If  my  heart 
be  early  seasoned  with  His  presence,  it  will  savor  of  Him  all  day 
after.  While  my  body  is  dressing,  not  with  an  effeminate  curios- 
ity, nor  yet  with  rude  neglect,  my  mind  addresses  itself  to  her 
ensuing  task,  bethinking  what  is  to  be  done,  and  in  what  order, 
and  marshalling  (as  it  may)  my  hours  with  my  work;  that  done, 
after  some  while’s  meditation,  I walk  up  to  my  masters  and  com- 
panions, my  books,  and  sitting  down  amongst  them  with  the  best 
contentment,  I dare  not  reach  forth  my  hand  to  salute  any  of 
them,  till  I have  first  looked  up  to  heaven,  and  craved  favor  of  Him 
to  whom  all  my  studies  are  duly  referred;  without  whom  I can 
neither  profit  nor  labor.  After  this,  out  of  no  over  great  variety,  I 
call  forth  those  which  may  best  fit  my  occasions,  wherein  I am  not 
too  scrupulous  of  age.  Sometimes  I put  myself  to  school  to  one 
of  those  ancients  whom  the  Church  hath  honored  with  the  name  of 
Fathers,  whose  volumes  I confess  not  to  open  without  a secret  rev- 
erence of  their  holiness  and  gravity;  sometimes  to  those  later  doc- 
tors, which  want  nothing  but  age  to  make  them  classical;  always 
to  God’s  Book.  That  day  is  lost  whereof  some  hours  are  not  im- 
proved in  those  divine  monuments ; others  I turn  over  out  of  choice ; 
these  out  of  duty.  Ere  I can  have  sat  unto  weariness,  my  family, 
having  now  overcome  all  household  distractions,  invites  me  to  our 
common  devotions;  not  without  some  short  preparation.  These, 
heartily  performed,  send  me  up  with  a more  strong  and  cheerful 
appetite  to  my  former  work,  which  I find  made  easy  to  me  by  inter- 
mission and  variety;  now,  therefore,  can  I deceive  the  hours  with 
change  of  pleasures,  that  is,  of  labors.  One  while  mine  eyes  are 


230 


TEEASUEES  eeom  the  eeose  WOELB. 


busied,  another  while  my  hand,  and  sometimes  my  mind  takes  the 
burden  from  them  both ; wherein  I would  imitate  the  skilfullest 
cooks,  which  make  the  best  dishes  with  manifold  mixtures;  one 
hour  is  spent  in  textual  divinity,  another  in  controversy ; histories 
relieve  them  both.  Now,  when  the  mind  is  weary  of  others’  la- 
bors, it  begins  to  undertake  her  own;  sometimes  it  meditates  and 
winds  up  for  future  use;  sometimes  it  lays  forth  her  conceits  into 
present  discourse;  sometimes  for  itself,  after  for  others.  Neither 
know  I whether  it  works  or  plays  in  these  thoughts.  I am  sure  no 
sport  hath  more  pleasure,  no  work  more  use;  only  the  decay  of  a 
weak  body  makes  me  think  these  delights  insensibly  laborious. 
Thus  could  I all  day  (as  singers  use)  make  myself  music  with 
changes,  and  complain  sooner  of  the  day  for  shortness  than  of  the 
business  for  toil,  were  it  not  that  this  faint  monitor  interrupts  me 
still  in  the  midst  of  my  busy  pleasures,  and  enforces  me  both  to 
respite  and  repast.  I must  yield  to  both ; while  my  body  and  mind 
are  joined  together  in  these  unequal  couples,  the  better  must  follow 
the  weaker.  Before  my  meals,  therefore,  and  after,  I let  myself 
loose  from  all  thoughts,  and  now  would  forget  that  I ever  studied; 
a full  mind  takes  away  the  body’s  appetite,  no  less  than  a full  body 
makes  a dull  and  un wieldly  mind;  company,  discourse,  recreations, 
are  now  seasonable  and  welcome;  these  prepare  me  for  a diet,  not 
gluttonous,  but  medicinal.  The  palate  may  not  be  pleased,  but  the 
stomach,  nor  that  for  its  own  sake;  neither  would  I think  any  of 
these  comforts  worth  respect  in  themselves  but  in  their  use,  in  their 
end,  so  far  as  they  may  enable  me  to  better  things.  If  I see  any 
dish  to  tempt  my  palate,  I fear  a serpent  in  that  apple,  and  would 
please  myself  in  a wilful  denial;  I rise  capable  of  more,  not  desir- 
ous ; not  now  immediately  from  my  trencher  to  my  book,  but  after 
some  intermission.  Moderate  speed  is  a sure  help  to  all  proceed- 
ings; where  those  things  which  are  prosecuted  with  violence  of 
endeavor  or  desire,  either  succeed  not  or  continue  not. 

After  my  later  meal,  my  thoughts  are  slight,  only  my  memory 
may  be  charged  with  her  task  of  recalling  what  was  committed  to 
her  custody  in  the  day ; and  my  heart  is  busy  in  examining  my 


TREASURES  from  the  prose  world. 


231 


hands  and  mouth,  and  all  other  senses  of  that  day’s  behavior. 
And  now  the  evening  is  come ; no  tradesman  doth  more  carefully 
take  in  his  wares,  clear  his  shopboard,  and  shut  his  window, 
than  I would  shut  up  my  thoughts  and  clear  my  mind.  That 
student  shall  live  miserably,  which  like  a camel  lies  down  under 
his  burden.  All  this  done,  calling  together  my  family,  we  end 
the  day  with  God;  thus  do  we  rather  drive  away  the  time  before 
us  than  follow  it.  I grant  neither  is  my  practice  worthy  to  be 
exemplary,  neither  are  our  callings  proportionable.  The  life  of 
a nobleman,  of  a courtier,  of  a scholar,  of  a citizen,  of  a country- 
man, differ  no  less  than  their  dispositions;  yet  must  all  conspire  in 
honest  labor. 

Sweat  is  the  destiny  of  all  trades,  whether  of  the  brows  or  of 
the  mind.  God  never  allowed  any  man  to  do  nothing.  How  mis- 
erable is  the  condition  of  those  men  who  spend  the  time  as  if  it 
were  given  them,  and  not  lent;  as  if  hours  were  waste  creatures, 
and  such  as  should  never  be  accounted  for ; as  if  God  would  take 
this  for  a good  bill  of  reckoning:  Item,  spent  upon  my  pleasures 
forty  years ! These  men  shall  once  find  that  no  blood  can  privilege 
idleness,  and  that  nothing  is  more  precious  to  God  than  that  which 
they  desire  to  cast  away — time.  Such  are  my  common  days;  but 
God’s  day  calls  for  another  respect.  The  same  sun  arises  on  this 
day.  and  enlightens  it;  yet  because  that  Sun  of  Righteousness 
arose  on  it,  and  drew  the  strength  of  God’s  moral  precept  unto  it, 
therefore  justly  do  we  sing  with  the  Psalmist,  “This  is  the  day 
which  the  Lord  hath  made.”  Now  I forget  the  world,  and  in  a 
sort  myself;  and  deal  with  my  wonted  thoughts,  as  great  men  use, 
who,  at  some  times  of  their  privacy,  forbid  the  access  of  all  suitors. 
Prayer,  meditation,  reading,  hearing,  preaching,  singing,  good  con- 
ference, are  the  businesses  of  this  day,  which  I dare  not  bestow  on 
any  work,  or  pleasure,  but  heavenly. 

I hate  superstition  on  the  one  side,  and  looseness  on  the  other; 
but  I find  it  hard  to  offend  in  too  much  devotion,  easy  in  profane- 
ness. The  whole  week  is  sanctified  by  this  day;  and  according  to 
my  care  of  this  is  my  blessing  on  the  rest.  I show  your  lordship 


232 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


what  I would  do,  and  what  I ought;  I commit  my  desires  to  the 
imitation  of  the  weak,  my  actions  to  the  censures  of  the  wise  and 
holy,  my  weaknesses  to  the  pardon  and  redress  of  my  merciful  God. 


Silent  Forces. 

I have  seen  the  wild  stone  avalanches  of  the  Alps,  which  smoke 
and  thunder  down  the  declivities  with  a vehemence  almost  sufficient 
to  stun  the  observer.  I have  also  seen  snowflakes  descending  so 
softly  as  not  to  hurt  the  fragile  spangles  of  which  they  were  com- 
posed ; yet  to  produce  from  aqueous  vapor  a quantity  of  that  tender 
material  which  a child  could  carry,  demands  an  exertion  of  energy 
competent  to  gather  up  the  shattered  blocks  of  the  largest  stone 
avalanche  I have  ever  seen,  and  pitch  them  to  twice  the  height  from 
which  they  fell. 


JOSIAH  GILBERT  HOLLAND. 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


283 


JOSIAH  GILBERT  HOLLAND. 


JG.  HOLLAND  was  born  in  Belchertown,  Mass.,  July 
24,  1819,  and  died  October  12,  1881. 

He  practiced  medicine  for  a short  time,  superintended 
the  schools  in  Vicksburg,  Mass.,  for  a year,  and  in  1849,  be- 
came associate  editor  of  the  Springfield,  Mass.,  Republican . 
For  the  columns  of  this  paper  he  wrote  several  of  his  pop- 
ular works.  In  1870,  he  became  editor  of  Scribner  s Monthly , 
in  New  York.  The  following  are  his  published  works  : The 
Bay  Path , published  in  1857  ; Timothy  Titcomb's  Letters  to  the 
Young,  1858;  Bitter  Sweet,  a dramatic  poem,  1858;  Gold 
Foil,  Hammered  from  Popular  Proverbs,  1859  ; Miss  Gilbert's 
Career,  1860;  Lessons  in  Life,  1861  ; Letters  to  the  Joneses, 
1863;  Plain  Talk  on  Familiar  Subjects,  1865;  Life  of  Abra- 
ham Lincoln,  1866;  Kathrina,  Her  Life  and  Mine,  a narra- 
tive poem,  1867. 

His  novels  are  his  best  and  most  artistic  works.  His 
poems  are  filled  with  fine  sentiment,  but  they  lack  the  smooth- 
ness and  poetic  finish  of  a truly  great  poet.  Bitter  Sweet 
and  Kathrina  have  been  immensely  popular.  They  gained 
a circulation  which  has  been  awarded  to  but  few  American 
works. 

Holland  is  known  as  the  popular  editor  of  Scribner's 
Monthly.  His  lessons  of  life  are  truly  noble,  and  the  relig- 
ious tone  given  to  many  of  his  works  is  specially  commend- 
able. 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


<* 

To  Goodrich.  Jones,  Jr. 

[Concerning  Ms  disposition  to  be  content  with  the  respectability  and  wealth 
which  his  father  has  acquired  for  him.] 

Your  father,  by  a life  of  integrity  and  close  and  skilful  applica- 
tion to  business,  has  made  for  himself  a good  reputation  in  the 
world,  and  become  what  the  world  calls  rich.  He  lives  in  a good 
house,  moves  in  good  society,  commands  for  his  family  all  desirable 
luxuries  of  dress  and  equipage,  and  holds  a position  which  places 
him  upon  an  equality  with  the  greatest  and  best.  He  began  hum- 
bly, if  I am  correctly  informed,  and  has  won  his  eminence  by  the 
force  of  his  own  life  and  character.  I honor  him.  I count  him 
worthy  of  the  respect  of  every  man,  and  I find  myself  disposed  to 
treat  his  family  with  respect  on  his  account — for  his  sake.  This 
feeling  toward  his  family,  which  I find  springing  up  spontaneously 
within  myself  seems  to  be  quite  universal.  The  world  bows  to  the 
family  of  the  venerable  Goodrich  Jones — bows,  not  to  Mrs.  Jones, 
particularly,  as  a respectable  woman,  but  to  the  wife  of  Goodrich 
Jones — bows  not  to  his  children,  as  young  men  and  women  of 
intelligence  and  good  morals,  but  as  young  people  who  are  to  be 
treated  with  more  than  ordinary  courtesy  because  they  are  the 
children  of  the  rich  and  respectable  Goodrich  Jones. 

This  feeling  of  the  world  toward  Mr.  Goodrich  Jones’  family 
is  very  natural.  It  is  a tribute  of  respect  to  a worthy  old  gentle- 
man, and,  so  far  as  he  is  concerned,  is  one  of  the  natural  rewards 
of  his  life  of  industry  and  integrity.  I notice,  however,  that  the 
family  of  Mr.  Jones  have  come  to  look  upon  these  tributes  of  re- 
spect to  them,  on  account  of  Mr.  Jones,  as  quite  the  proper  and 
regular  thing,  and  to  feel  that  they  are  really  worthy  of  special  at- 
tention, because  Mr.  Jones  commands  it  for  himself.  Instead  of 
f eeling  a little  humiliated  by  the  consciousness  that  they  are  treated 


Treasures  from  the  prose  world.  235 

with  special  politeness,  not  because  they  are  particularly  brilliant, 
or  rich,  or  well  bred,  but  because  they  are  the  family  of  a rich  and 
respectable  man,  they  are  inclined  to  feel  proud  of  it.  How  they 
manage  to  be  vain  of  respectability  and  wealth  won  for  them  by 
somebody  beside  themselves,  I do  not  know;  but  I suppose  their 
case  is  not  singular.  Indeed,  I know  that  the  world  is  full  of  such 
cases,  many  of  which  would  be  ridiculous  were  they  not  pitiful. 

The  thought  that  you,  Goodrich  Jones,  Jr.,  are  the  son  of 
Goodrich  Jones,  and  that  you  hear  his  name,  seems  to  form  the 
basis  of  your  estimate  of  yourself.  I have  already  given  the  rea- 
son why  the  world  treats  you  respectfully,  but  that  reason  need  not 
necessarily  he  identical  with  that  which  leads  you  to  respect  your- 
self. If,  owing  to  some  circumstances  or  agency  beyond  your  con- 
trol, you  were  to  be  suddenly  stripped  of  all  your  ready  money  and 
other  resources,  and  set  down  in  some  distant  city  among  strangers, 
what  would  he  your  first  impulse?  Would  you  go  to  work,  and  try 
to  make  a place  for  yourself?  Would  you  be  willing  to  pass  for 
just  what  you  are — to  he  estimated  for  just  what  there  is  in  you  of 
the  elements  of  manhood,  or  would  you  endeavor  to  convince 
everybody  that  you  were  the  son  of  a certain  very  rich  and  respect- 
able Goodrich  Jones,  and  try  to  secure  consideration  for  yourself 
by  such  representation?  I presume  you  would  pursue  the  same 
policy  among  strangers  that  you  pursue  among  friends.  You  have 
never  made  an  effort  to  he  respected  for  works  or  personal  merits 
of  your  own.  You  push  yourself  forward  everywhere  as  the  son  of 
Goodrich  Jones — indeed,  as  Goodrich  Jones,  Jr.  You  have  not 
only  been  content  to  live  in  the  shadow  of  your  father’s  name,  but 
you  have  been  apparently  anxious  to  invite  public  attention  to  the 
fact  that  you  do.  You  have  not  only  been  content  to  live  upon 
money  which  your  father  has  made,  but  you  seem  delighted  to 
have  it  understood  that  you  can  draw  upon  him  for  all  you  want. 
You  seem  to  have  no  ambition  to  make  either  reputation  or  money 
for  yourself.  On  the  contrary,  I think  you  would  look  upon  it  as 
disgraceful  for  you  to  engage  in  business  for  the  purpose  of  win- 
ning wealth  by  labor. 


23G 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


Now,  will  yon  permit  one  who  has  bowed  to  you  frequently  for 
your  father1  s sake,  to  talk  very  plainly  to  you  for  your  own?  Let 
me  assure  you,  in  the  first  place,  that  all  this  respect  which  the 
world  shows  to  you  is  unsubstantial  and  unreliable.  The  man  who 
treats  you  with  respect  because  your  father  is  rich  would  cease  to 
treat  you  with  respect  if  you  were  to  become  poor.  The  man  who 
bows  to  you  because  your  father  occupies  a high  social  position, 
would  pass  you  without  recognition  were  your  father,  for  any  rea- 
son, to  lose  that  position.  Let  me  assure  you  that  the  world  does 
not  care  for  you  any  further  than  you  are  the  partaker  of  the  money 
and  the  respectability  which  have  been  achieved  by  your  father. 
Nay,  I will  go  further,  and  say  that,  side  by  side  with  the  deference 
which  it  shows  for  you  on  your  father’s  account,  it  cherishes  con- 
tempt for  one  who  is  willing  to  receive  his  position  at  second  hand. 
You  cannot  complain  of  this,  for  you  place  your  claims  for  social 
consideration  entirely  on  your  father’s  position.  The  negro  slave  is 
proud  of  the  superior  wealth  of  his  master,  and  among  his  fellow 
slaves,  assumes  a superior  position  in  consequence  of  wealth  which 
is  not  his  own.  He  belongs  to  a splendid  establishment,  and,  in 
his  own  eyes,  wins  importance  from  the  association.  When  his 
master  fails,  the  slave  sinks.  No,  sir,  there  is  nothing  reliable  in 
this  consideration  of  the  wTorld  for  you.  You  are  only  treated  as  a 
representative  of  the  wealth  and  respectability  of  another  man,  and 
if  he  were  to  be  displeased  with  you,  and  were  to  disown  and  disin- 
herit you,  you  would  find  yourself  without  a friend  in  the  world. 

In  the  second  place,  your  position  is  an  unmanly  one.  None 
but  a mean  man  can  be  willing  to  hold  his  position  at  second  hand. 
I count  him  fortunate  who  is  born  to  pleasant  and  good  social 
relations,  and  all  the  advantages  which  they  bring  him  for  the 
development  of  his  personal  character;  but  I count  him  most  un- 
fortunate who,  born  to  such  relations,  is  willing  to  hold  them  as  a 
birthright  alone.  A man  who  is  willing  to  keep  a place  in  society 
which  his  father  has  given  him,  through  his  father’s  continued 
influence,  is  necessarily  mean  spirited  and  contemptible.  Every 
young  man  of  a manly  spirit  who  finds  himself  in  good  society, 
through  the  influences  of  others,  will  prove  lm_ngh\^ 


TREASURES  PROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


and  hold  the  place  by  his  own  merits.  No  man  of  your  age  can 
consent  to  hold  his  social  position  solely  through  the  influence  of  his 
father  without  convicting  himself  either  of  imbecility  or  meanness. 
If  you  had  any  genuine  self-respect,  you  would  feel  that  to  owe  to 
others  what  you  are  capable  of  winning  for  yourself,  and  to  be  con- 
sidered only  as  a portion  of  a rich  and  respectable  man’s  belongings, 
is  a disgrace  to  your  manhood. 

I suppose  the  thought  has  never  occurred  to  you  that  you  owe 
something  to  your  father  for  what  he  has  done  for  you.  He  gave 
you  position.  His  name  shielded  you  through  all  your  childhood 
and  youth  from  many  of  the  dangers  and  disadvantages  which 
other  young  men  are  forced  to  encounter.  He  gave  you  great  vantage 
ground  in  the  work  of  life,  and  you  owe  it  to  him  to  improve  it. 
If  your  name  helps  you,  you  ought  to  do  something  for  your  name. 
If  your  father  honors  you,  you  ought  to  honor  him,  and  to  do  as 
much  for  his  name  as  he  has  done  for  yours.  You  have  no  moral 
right  to  disgrace  one  who  has  done  so  much  for  you ; for  his  reputa- 
tion is  partly  in  your  keeping.  It  would  be  an  everlasting  disgrace 
to  him  to  bring  up  a boy  who  relied  solely  upon  his  father  for  re- 
spectability. It  would  be  a blot  upon  his  reputation  to  have  a son 
so  mean  as  to  he  content  with  a name  and  fortune  at  second  hand 
I tell  you,  sir,  that  you  must  change  your  plan  and  course  of  life, 
or  people  will  talk  more  and  more  of  your  unworthiness  to  stand 
in  your  father’s  shoes,  and  express  their  wonder  more  and  more 
that  so  sensible  and  industrious  a father  could  train  a son  so  in- 
efficiently as  he  has  trained  you.  When  this  good  father  of  yours 
shall  die,  you  will  be  thrown  more  upon  yourself.  You  will  have 
money,  I presume,  and  you  will  still  sit  in  the  comfortable  shadows  of 
your  father’s  name;  but  the  world  changes,  and  strangers  will  esti- 
mate you  at  your  true  value,  and  those  who  knew  your  father  will 
only  talk  of  the  sad  contrast  between  his  character  and  your  own. 

I suppose  you  are  not  above  the  desire  for  the  good  will  of  the 
world.  Well,  the  world  is  made  up  of  workers.  The  great  masses 
of  men — and  your  father  is  among  the  number — ^ire  obliged  to 
depend  upon  their  own  labor  and  their  own  an4  excellence  of 


238 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


character  for  wealth  and  position.  People  do  not  envy  him,  be- 
cause he  won  all  that  he  possesses  by  his  own  skill  and  industry. 
He  is  universally  admired  and  esteemed,  and  you  are  enjoying 
some  of  the  fruits  of  this  admiration  and  esteem  in  the  politeness 
of  the  world  toward  yourself;  but  this  will  not  always  last.  You 
must  mingle  in  the  world’s  work,  and  cast  in  your  lot  with  your 
fellows,  contributing  your  share  of  labor,  and  taking  what  comes 
of  it  in  pelf  and  position,  or  else  you  will  be  voted  out  of  the  pale 
of  popular  sympathy.  The  world  does  not  love  drones,  and  you 
must  cease  to  be  a drone  or  it  will  never  love  you. 

I suppose  it  is  hard  for  you  to  realize  that  you  are  not  the 
object  of  envy  among  men,  but  I wish  you  could  for  once  feel  the 
contempt  which  your  parasitic  position  excites  even  among  men 
whom  you  deem  beneath  your  notice.  There  are  many  young  men 
who  have  been  compelled  to  labor  all  their  lives  for  bread,  that 
would  shrink  from  exchanging  places  with  you  as  from  a loathsome 
disgrace.  They  would  not  take  your  idle  habits,  your  foppish 
tastes,  your  childish  spirit,  and  your  reputation,  for  all  your  father’s 
money;  and  these  men,  strange  as  it  may  seem  to  your  mean  spirit, 
are  more  respected  and  better  loved  by  the  world  than  yourself.  I 
say  that  you  are  not  above  the  desire  for  the  good  will  of  the 
world;  but,  if  you  would  get  it,  you  must  be  a man.  You  must 
show  that  you  have  a man’s  spirit,  and  that  you  are  willing  to  do  a 
man’s  work.  No  idle  man  ever  yet  lived  upon  the  wealth  won  for 
him  by  others  and  at  the  same  time  enjoyed  the  love  of  the  world. 

All  this  you  will  find  out  by-and-by  without  my  telling  you, 
but  then  it  may  be  too  late  for  remedy.  You  are  now  young,  but, 
if  you  live,  you  will  come  at  length  to  realize  that  instead  of  being 
envied,  you  are  despised.  You  will  make  a sadder  discovery,  too, 
than  this.  You  will  discover  that  you  have  as  little  basis  for  self- 
respect  as  for  popular  regard.  Years  cannot  fail  to  reveal  to  you 
some  things  which  youth  hides  from  you.  You  will  find  that  the 
world  is  busy,  that  you  have  no  one  to  spend  your  time  with,  and 
that  the  men  who  have  power  and  public  consideration  are  men 
who  have  something  to  do  besides  killing  time  and  spending  money. 


I 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


239 


You  will  find  that  you  are  without  sympathy  and  companionship 
among  the  best  people,  and  when  you  ascertain  the  reason — for  it 
will  he  so  obvious  that  you  will  not  fail  to  see  it — you  will  learn 
that  you  are  not  worthy  of  their  sympathy  and  companionship. 
In  short,  you  will  learn  to  despise  yourself. 

I have  already  spoken  to  you  of  the  debt  which  you  owe  to 
your  father  for  what  he  has  done  for  you.  There  are  some  further 
considerations  relating  to  your  family  which  I wish  to  offer.  A 
family  name  and  reputation  are  things  of  life  and  growth.  The 
character  which  your  father  has  made  is  a product  of  fife,  so  grand 
and  far-spreading  that  his  family  sits  beneath,  and  is  sheltered  by 
it.  It  is  the  law  of  all  vital  products  that  they  shall  grow,  or  hold 
their  ground  against  encroachment,  by  what  they  feed  upon.  Food 
must  be  constant,  or  death  is  sure  to  come,  soon  or  late.  The 
character  of  your  family — its  power,  position  and  high  relatipns — 
is  the  product  of  your  father’s  vital  force,  working  in  various  ways. 
Not  many  years  hence,  that  force  must  stop  its  work.  Your  father 
will  die,  and  unless  you  take  up  his  work  and  do  it,  this  family 
character  will  pine  and  dwindle,  and  ultimately  sink  in  utter  decay. 

Look  around  you  and  see  how  some  of  the  rich  and  influential 
old  families  have  died  out,  because  there  was  no  man  in  them  to 
keep  them  alive.  The  founder  of  the  family  did  what  he  could, 
raised  his  family  to  the  highest  social  position,  gave  them  wealth, 
bequeathed  to  them  a good  name,  and  died.  The  sons  who  fol- 
lowed were  not  worthy  of  him.  They  were  not  men.  They  were 
babies,  who  were  willing  to  five  upon  their  family  name,  and  who 
did  live  upon  it  until  they  consumed  it.  It  is  sad  to  see  a family 
name  fade  out  as  it  often  does,  through  the  failure  of  its  men  to 
feed  it  with  the  blood  of  a worthy  life ; and  yours  will  fade  out  in  a 
single  generation,  if  you  do  not  immediately  prepare  yourself  to 
take  up  your  father's  work,  and  carry  it  on.  It  is  always  pleasant 
and  inspiring  to  see  young  men  who  expect  to  inherit  money  enter- 
ing with  energy  upon  the  work  of  life,  as  if  they  had  their  fortunes 
to  make.  It  proves  that  they  are  men,  and  proves  that  they  are 
preparing  to  handle  usefully  the  money  that  is  to  come  into  their 


240 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


hands.  It  proves  that  they  intend  to  win  respect  for  themselves, 
and  to  lay  at  least  the  foundation  of  their  own  fortune.  When  I 
see  such  men,  I feel  that  the  name  of  their  families  is  safe  in  their 
keeping,  and  that,  for  at  least  one  generation,  those  families  can- 
not sink.  The  desire  to  be  somebody  besides  somebody’s  son, 
shows  a manly  disposition,  which  the  world  at  once  recognizes, 
and  to  which  it  freely  opens  its  heart. 

I am  aware  that  a young  man  in  your  position  has  great  temp- 
tations, and  labors  under  great  disadvantages.  We  are  in  the  habit  of 
regarding  a poor  young  man,  who  has  neither  family  name  nor  in- 
fluence, as  laboring  under  disadvantages,  and  in  some  aspects  of 
his  case,  we  regard  him  rightly.  But  he  has  certainly  the  advan- 
tage of  the  stimulus  which  obstacles  to  be  overcome  afford.  The 
poor  man  sees  that  he  must  make  his  own  fortune,  or  that  his  for- 
tune will  not  be  made  at  all;  and  the  obstacles  that  lie  before  him 
only  stimulate  him  to  labor  with  the  greater  efficiency.  When  I 
see  a poor  young  man  bravely  accepting  his  lot,  and  patiently  and 
heroically  applying  himself  to  the  work  of  building  a fortune  and 
achieving  a position,  I am  moved  to  thank  God  for  his  poverty,  for 
I know  that  in  that  poverty  he  will  ultimately  discover  the  secret  of 
his  best  successes. 

Your  disadvantage  is  that  position  and  wealth  have  already 
been  won  for  you.  It  is  not  necessary  for  you  to  labor  to  get  bread 
and  clothing  and  a comfortable  home.  These  have  already  been 
won  for  you  by  other  hands.  I do  not  deny  that  this  condition  of 
things  is  naturally  enervating.  I confess  that  it  takes  much  good 
sense  and  an  unusual  degree  of  manliness  to  resist  the  temptations 
to  idleness  which  it  brings ; but  you  must  resist  them  or  suffer  the 
saddest  consequences.  You  must  labor  in  a steady,  manly  way  to 
make  your  own  place  in  the  world,  as  a fitting  preparation  for  the 
husbandry  and  enjoyment  of  the  wealth  which  will  some  day  be 
yours.  If  you  have  not  those  considerations  in  your  favor  which 
stimulate  the  poor  man  to  exertion,  then  you  must  adopt  those 
which  I have  tried  to  present  to  you.  You  must  remember  that  to 
be  content  with  a position  received  at  second  hand,  and  to  live 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


241 


simply  to  spend  the  money  earned  by  others  is  most  unmanly. 
You  must  remember  that  you  owe  it  to  your  father  and  to  your 
family  name  and  fame,  to  keep  your  family  in  the  position  of  con- 
sideration and  influence  in  which  he  has  placed  it,  and  that  it  is 
certain  to  recede  from  that  position  unless  you  do.  You  must  re- 
member that  only  by  work  can  you  win  the  good  will  of  the  world 
around  you,  or  win  and  retain  respect  for  yourself. 

If  the  disadvantages  of  your  position  are  great,  your  reward 
for  worthy  work  is  also  great.  The  world  always  recognizes  the 
strength  of  the  temptations  which  attach  to  the  position  of  a rich 
young  man,  and  awards  to  him  a peculiar  honor  for  that  spirit 
which  refuses  to  he  respected  for  anything  hut  his  own  manliness. 
I know  of  no  young  men  who  hold  the  good-will  of  the  public  more 
thoroughly  than  those  who  set  aside  all  the  temptations  to  indolence 
and  indulgence  which  attend  wealth,  and  put  themselves  heartily  to 
the  work  of  deserving  the  social  position  to  which  they  are  born, 
and  of  earning  the  bread  which  a father’s  wealth  has  already 
secured.  You  have  but  to  will  and  to  work,  and  this  beautiful  re- 
ward will  be  yours. 


Tramp,  Tramp,  Tramp. 

Tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  the  boys  are  marching;  how  many  of 
them?  Sixty  thousand ! Sixty  full  regiments,  every  man  of  which 
will,  before  twelve  months  shall  have  completed  their  course,  lie 
down  in  the  grave  of  a drunkard!  Every  year  during  the  past 
decade  has  witnessed  the  same  sacrifice ; and  sixty  regiments  stand 
behind  this  army  ready  to  take  its  place.  It  is  to  be  recruited  from 
our  children  and  our  children’s  children.  Tramp,  tramp,  tramp — 
the  sounds  come  to  us  in  the  echoes  of  the  army  just  expired;  tramp, 
tramp,  tramp — the  earth  shakes  with  the  tread  of  the  host  now 
passing;  tramp,  tramp,  tramp — comes  to  us  from  the  camp  of  the 
recruits.  A great  tide  of  life  flows  resistlessly  to  its  death.  What  in 


242 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


God’s  name  are  they  lighting  for?  The  privilege  of  pleasing  an 
appetite,  of  conforming  to  a social  usage,  of  filling  sixty  thousand 
homes  with  shame  and  sorrow,  of  loading  the  public  with  the  bur- 
den of  pauperism,  of  crowding  our  prison-houses  with  felons,  of 
detracting  from  the  productive  industries  of  the  country,  of  ruining 
fortunes  and  breaking  hopes,  of  breeding  disease  and  wretchedness, 
of  destroying  both  body  and  soul  in  hell  before  their  time. 

The  prosperity  of  the  liquor  interest,  covering  every  department 
of  it,  depends  entirely  on  the  maintenance  of  this  army.  It  cannot 
live  without  it.  It  never  did  live  without  it.  So  long  as  the  liquor 
interest  maintains  its  present  prosperous  condition,  it  will  cost 
America  the  sacrifice  of  sixty  thousand  men  every  year.  The  effect 
is  inseparable  from  the  cause.  The  cost  to  the  country  of  the  liquor 
traffic  is  a sum  so  stupendous  that  any  figures  which  we  should 
dare  to  give  would  convict  us  of  trifling.  The  amount  of  life  abso- 
lutely destroyed,  the  amoimt  of  industry  sacrificed,  the  amount  of 
bread  transformed  into  poison,  the  shame,  the  unavailing  sorrow, 
the  crime,  the  poverty,  the  pauperism,  the  brutality,  the  wild  waste 
of  vital  and  financial  resources,  make  an  aggregate  so  vast, — so 
incalculably  vast, — that  the  only  wonder  is  that  the  American  peo- 
ple do  not  rise  as  one  man  and  declare  that  this  great  curse  shall 
exist  no  longer. 

A hue-and-cry  is  raised  about  woman  suffrage,  as  if  any  wrong 
which  may  be  involved  in  woman’s  lack  of  the  suffrage  could  be 
compared  to  the  wrongs  attached  to  the  liquor  interest. 

Does  any  sane  woman  doubt  that  women  are  suffering  a thou- 
sand times  more  from  rum  than  from  political  disability? 

The  truth  is,  that  there  is  no  question  before  the  American 
people  to-day  that  begins  to  match  in  importance  the  temperance 
question.  The  question  of  American  slavery  was  never  anything 
but  a baby  by  the  side  of  this ; and  we  prophecy  that  within  ten 
years,  if  not  within  five,  the  whole  country  will  be  awake  to  it,  and 
divided  upon  it.  The  organizations  of  the  liquor  interest,  the  vast 
funds  at  its  command,  the  universal  feeling  of  those  whose  business 
is  pitted  against  the  national  prosperity  and  public  morals — these 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


248 


are  enough  to  show  that,  upon  one  side  of  this  matter,  at  least,  the 
present  condition  of  things  and  the  social  and  political  questions 
that  he  in  the  immediate  future  are  apprehended.  The  liquor  inter- 
est knows  there  is  to  be  a great  struggle,  and  is  preparing  to  meet 
it.  People  both  in  this  country  and  in  Great  Britain  are  beginning 
to  see  the  enormity  of  the  business — are  beginning  to  reahze  that 
Christian  civilization  is  actually  poisoned  at  its  fountain,  and  that 
there  can  be  no  purification  of  it  until  the  source  of  the  poison  is 
dried  up. 

Temperance  laws  are  being  passed  by  the  various  Legislatures, 
which  they  must  sustain,  or  go  over,  soul  and  body,  to  the  liquor 
interest  and  influences.  Steps  are  being  taken  on  behalf  of  the 
pubhc  health,  morals  and  prosperity,  which  they  must  approve  by 
voice  and  act,  or  they  must  consent  to  be  left  behind  and  left  out. 
There  can  be  no  concession  and  no  compromise  on  the  part  of  tem- 
perance men,  and  no  quarter  to  the  foe.  The  great  curse  of  our 
country  and  our  race  must  be  destroyed. 

Meantime,  the  tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  sounds  on, — the  tramp  of 
sixty  thousand  yearly  victims.  Some  are  besotted  and  stupid, 
some  are  wild  with  hilarity  and  dance  along  the  dusty  way,  some 
reel  along  in  pitiful  weakness,  some  wreak  their  mad  and  murderous 
impulses  on  one  another,  or  on  the  helpless  women  and  children 
whose  destinies  are  united  to  theirs,  some  stop  in  wayside  debauch- 
eries and  infamies  for  a moment,  some  go  bound  in  chains  from 
which  they  seek  in  vain  to  wrench  their  bleeding  wrists,  and  ah  are 
poisoned  in  body  and  soul,  and  ah  are  doomed  to  death. 


244 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


My  Mother’s  Bible. 

On  one  of  the  shelves  in  my  library,  surrounded  by  volumes  of 
all  kinds  on  various  subjects,  and  in  various  languages,  stands  an 
old  book,  in  its  plain  covering  of  brown  paper,  unprepossessing  to 
the  eye,  and  apparently  out  of  place  among  the  more  preten- 
tious volumes  that  stand  by  its  side.  To  the  eye  of  a stranger  it 
has  certainly  neither  beauty  nor  comeliness.  Its  covers  are  worn ; 
its  leaves  marred  by  long  use;  yet,  old  and  worn  as  it  is,  to  me  it 
is  the  most  beautiful  and  most  valuable  book  on  my  shelves.  No 
other  awakens  such  associations,  or  so  appeals  to  all  that  is  best 
and  noblest  within  me.  It  is,  or  rather  it  ivas,  my  mother’s  Bible 
— companion  of  her  best  and  holiest  hours,  source  of  her  unspeak- 
able joy  and  consolation.  From  it  she  derived  the  principles  of  a 
truly  Christian  life  and  character.  It  was  the  light  to  her  feet, 
and  the  lamp  to  her  path.  It  was  constantly  by  her  side;  and,  as 
her  steps  tottered  in  the  advancing  pilgrimage  of  life,  and  her  eyes 
grew  dim  with  age,  more  and  more  precious  to  her  became  the  well 
worn  pages. 

One  morning,  just  as  the  stars  were  fading  into  the  dawn  of 
the  coming  Sabbath,  the  aged  pilgrim  passed  on  beyond  the  stars 
and  beyond  the  morning,  and  entered  into  the  rest  of  the  eternal 
Sabbath — to  look  upon  the  face  of  Him  of  whom  the  law  and  the 
prophets  had  spoken,  and  whom,  not  having  seen,  she  had  loved. 
And  now,  no  legacy  is  to  me  more  precious  than  that  old  Bible. 
Years  have  passed;  but  it  stands  there  on  its  shelf,  eloquent  as  ever, 
witness  of  a beautiful  life  that  is  finished,  and  a silent  monitor  to 
the  living.  In  hours  of  trial  and  sorrow  it  says,  “Be  not  cast 
down,  my  son;  for  thou  shalt  yet  praise  Him  who  is  the  health  of 
thy  countenance  and  thy  God.”  In  moments  of  weakness  and  fear 
it  says,  “Be  strong,  my  son;  and  quit  yourself  manfully.”  When 
sometimes,  from  the  cares  and  conflicts  of  external  life,  I come 
back  to  the  study,  weary  of  the  world  and  tired  of  men— of  men 


r mmm 


Written  for  the  Detroit  tfonunereial  Advertiser, 

BY  S' Lit/ A COLBY. 

WAITING* 


we 


From  the  baby  breath  to  the  la 

' breati.e, 

There’s  a joy  in  the  future  we  long  t.o  receive; 
Forgetting  the  ’morrows  we  loDgeil  for  as  these, 
Forgetting  the  pleasures  that  failed  us  to  please, 
We  are  still  gazing  on  to  /the  future’s  grand 
heights; 

Observing  the  noontides,  ignoring  the  nights. 


We’re  waiting  to  gather  the  riches  and  fame, 

That  falter  to  those  who  but  wearily  claim, 
Scarcely  caring  at  last  for  the  Crown  so  well  won, 
String  now  that  the  journey  so  nearly  is  done; 
Wishing  only  to  sink  to  the  earth's  quiet  breast, 
With  their  life  work  well  dene,  waiting  only  to 
tf  f rest. 


. We’re  waiting  (oh  future  be  true, and  bend  low) 

* For  the  hearts  that  we  cherished  in  . ears  long 


Midst  toiling  and  blessing,  midst  auguish  and 
Jl  bliss, 

We’re  waiting  through  death, and  Thy  promise  for 
\ this; 

Ftflst  earth  and  its  contests,  its  splendor  and  pride. 
Were  waiting  that  land  where  no  woes  6 hall 
divide. 


Written  for  the  Detroit  Commercial  Advertise*. 

BY  CHARLES  K.  SHETTEEL.Y.  . 

THE  ANGELS  WHISPEBED  TO 

51  AlfE)k  a 


Once  upon  life’s  flowery  margin,  when  the  sun 
shone  fair  and  bright. 

And  the  breezes  chanted  gaily  to  the  blossoms, 
pure  and  white. 

When  the  ever-bubbling  fountains  of  our  child- 
hood's better  time, 

Still  were  filling  vale  and  highland  withftheir  melo- 
' dy  sublime; 

Sweeter  far  than  sweetest  blossoms,  sat  a baby 
wondrous  fair. 

With  an  angel’s  wing  about  her,  and  an  angel’s 
• shining  hair 

Falling  o'er  the  dainty  robing  of  the  waxen  limbs, 
and  free, 

While  tiie  angel  lips  were  speaking  softly  of  the 
things  to  be. 


“You  can  hear  the  voices,  baby,  of  the  far-off 
restless  throng, 

For  the  valleys  now  are  ringing  with  the  echo  of 
their  song; 

But  a million  hopes  are  dying  in  the  wear y walks 
of  earth, 

And  a million  hearts  are  breaking  ’mid  the  shouts 
of  joy  and  mirth. 

There  is  love,  and  hope,  and  gladness,  where  the 
busy  footsteps  fall, 

But  an  undertone  of  sadness,  low  and  solemn, 
wails  through  all; 

There  are  shadows  with  the  sunshine,  there  are 
thorns  beneath  the.  flowers, 

And  serpents  with  their  poisoned  fangs  within  the 
fairest  bowers.  . 


“But  there  is  a land,  my  baby,”  and  the  angel’s 
brow  was  bent 

Still  lower  o’er  the  dimpled  face, where  the  shadows 
came  and  went. 

“ There  is  a land  of  light  and  beauty,  where  the 
sweetest  waters  flow, 

Where  the  harps  are  never  broken,  and  the  bleak 
winds  may  not  go; 

Shall  I bear  thee  to  its  brightness?”  and  the  baby 
drooped  its  head, 

Closed  its  eyes— and  mourners  whispered  in  their 
auguMs.  “She  is  dead.” 

Ah!  they  could  not  see  the  glory  covering  the 
brow  so  fair, 

And  the  angel-fingers  toying  with  the  baby’s 
golden  hair. 


Could  not  hear  the  Father  saying,  “Suffer  her  to 
come  to  me, 

For  of  such  the  Heavenly  Kingdom  was,  and  ever 

tn  lit/  ■” 


is  to  be  : 

Could  not  see  the  waiting  minstrels,  and  their 
voices  could  not  hear, 

For  the  tempest  dimm’d  their  vision,  and  its  thun- 
der doll'd  their  ear! 


Little  clinging  vine  that  clasped  them— baby  with 
the  goiden  hair— 

Spirit,  ' a thy  stainless  beauty,  dwelling  where  the 
sinless  are, 

Little  wanderer  no  longer  on  life’s  dark  and  toil- 
. some  .-oad, 

Lead,  O,  lead  them  through  the  shadows,  to  the 
city  of  our  God. 

Utica,  Mich. 


Written  for  the  Detroi 


cssimiy,  sue  LJio  tonn  ot  Colonel 

Leighton.  She  iteraembcrcd  his  bowed 
head  and  silvered  oOtird, his  dark,  deeply  fur- 
rowfed  face,  and  , fifty  years.  Sh.4  could 
get  no  further.  A younger  face,  vii/h 
merry,  azure  eyes,  anutossingymimy  .hair, 
sprang  up  in  strong  contrast.  Stretching 
out  lier  hands  to  her  father,  as  if  fcr  pity, 
she  cried  out.  > 

“ I cannot — oh  father,  I cannot’/* 

The  old  man  sank  back  with  a groan. 

“ Lost — then  lam  lost!”  he  cried,  shud- 
dering. There  were  no  reproaches,  only 
those  bitter  words  and  that  despairing  at- 
titude. White  and  tearless  she  sat  at  fds 
rest,  the  agony  of  heart  written  on  her 
face.  The  wild,  desperate  thought  that 
the  sacrifice  was  possible,  occurred  to  her. 
“Father,  dear  father!” 

He  raised  liis  head,  whitened  with  the 
frosts  of  his  sixty  winters,  and  looked  at 
her  with  a gleam  of  hope  in  his  sunkefa 
eyes.  She  Ctfept  into  his  arms  as  she  lira! 
done  when  a child,  and  laid  her  soft  cln&k 
against  his  wrinkled  brow. 

“ You  know  that  I love  you,  father,” 
she  said.  “ I can  never  remember  you  but 
as  kind,  tender,  and  forbearing  with  me. 
Your  he^lrt  has  been  mv  home  all  my  life. 

I will  work,  beg,  suffer  for  you — I will 
die  for  you — oh,  how  willingly,  if  need  he! 
But  that — oh  father,  you  do  not  know 
what  it  is  that  you  ask !” 

He  did  not  speak,  but  a moan  broke  un- 
controllably from  his  lips,  as  he  rested  his 
head  upon  her  shoulder.  The  struggle  in 
her  heart  sent  dark,  shadowy  waves  across 
•her  face.  Could  she— -could  she? 

“Father,”  slm  whispered,  hurriedly, 

‘ * let  me  go  now!  I will  see  you  again- 
answer  you  to-morrow.”  And  she  left 
him. 

He  could  not  see  her  face  in  the  gather- 
ing darkness,  only  a glimpse  of  something 
win.  but  be  felt  the  quivering  of  her  lips 
as  she  bent  to  kiss  him,  and  reached  out 
his  arms  to  embrace  her, but  she  was  gone. 

“Heaven  pity  me!”  The  words  came 
like  a wail  from  her  lips.  She  was  alone 
in  lier  chamber,  flung  prostrate  upon  a low 
couch,  with  her  face  hid  in  the  cushions. 
The  sound  of  the  rustling  foliage  of  the 
garden,  and  the  chirping  of  the  birds, 
came  in  through  the  open  window  with  the 
damp  evening  breeze*  and  the  pale  light  of 
the  rising  moon  filled  the  room  with  a soft 
radiance,  but  she  was  unconscious  of 
everything  but  her  misery.  The  house 
was  so  quiet  that  the  sound  of  a footstep 
crossing  the  hall  below  fell  upon  her  ear, 
and  aroused  her  to  a momentary  interest. 
She  heard  a door  open — the  library  .door, 
and  then  a voice  uttered  a few  words  of 
commonplace  greeting.  She  Remembered 
it  well,  and  sprang  to  her  feet  with  a des- 
perate, insane  thought  of  flight.*.  But  -the  . 
door  closed,  the  house?  was  still  again;  and 
she  was  calmer. 

She  crossed  the  room  listlessly  and  drew 
back  the  curtain  of  the  window.  The 
scene  without  was  beautiful.  The  moon- 
light lay  broadly  on  the  garden,  turning  to 
silver  the  tops  of  the  trees,  and  making  the 
little  lake  beyond  look  like  a great  white 
pearl.  Gazing  .earnestly,  downward  she 
saw  a tall,  shadowy  figure  .standing  beneath 
the  shade  of  the  old  elm.  With  a low  cry 
she  sprang  from  the  room  and  a moment 
after  stood  beside  her  lover. 

“ Come  at  last,  ray  treasure,”  cried 
Mark  Winchester,  folding  her  in  his  arms. 
Sbe  remained  leaning  passively  against  his 
breast,  while  he  pressed  passionate  kisses 
upon  lier  forehead,  cheeks  and, lips. 

Why  have  you  mar^e  me  Wait  so  long, 

’ * 1 and  taking  both 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


245 


that  are  so  hard  and  selfish,  and  a world  that  is  so  unfeeling — and 
the  strings  of  the  soul  have  become  untuned  and  discordant,  I seem 
to  hear  that  Book  saying,  as  with  the  well  remembered  tones  of  a 
voice  long  silent,  “Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled.  For  what  is 
your  life?  It  is  even  as  a vapor.”  Then  my  troubled  spirit  be- 
comes calm;  and  the  little  world,  that  had  grown  so  great  and  so 
formidable,  sinks  into  its  true  place  again.  I am  peaceful,  I am 
strong. 

There  is  no  need  to  take  down  the  volume  from  the  shelf,  or 
open  it.  A glance  of  the  eye  is  sufficient.  Memory  and  the  law  of 
association  supply  the  rest.  Yet  there  are  occasions  when  it  is 
otherwise;  hours  in  fife  when  some  deeper  grief  has  troubled  the 
heart,  some  darker,  heavier  cloud  is  over  the  spirit  and  over  the 
dwelling,  and  when  it  is  comfort  to  take  down  that  old  Bible  and 
search  its  pages.  Then,  for  a time,  the  latest  editions,  the  original 
languages,  the  notes  and  commentaries,  and  all  the  critical  appara- 
tus which  the  scholar  gathers  around  him  for  the  study  of  the 
Scriptures,  are  laid  aside ; and  the  plain  old  English  Bible  that  was 
my  mother’s  is  taken  from  the  shelf. 


The  Wonders  of  an  Atom. 

All  things  visible  around  us  are  aggregations  of  atoms.  From 
particles  of  dust,  which  under  the  microscope  could  scarcely  be  dis- 
tinguished one  from  the  other,  are  all  the  varied  forms  of  nature 
created.  This  grain  of  dust,  this  particle  of  sand,  has  strange 
properties  and  powers.  Science  has  discovered  some,  but  still  more 
truths  are  hidden  within  this  irregular  molecule  of  matter  which 
we  now  survey  than  even  philosophy  dares  dream  of.  How  strangely 
it  obeys  the  impulses  of  heat — mysterious  are  the  influences  of 
light  upon  it — electricity  wonderfully  excites  it — and  still  more  cu- 
rious is  the  manner  in  which  it  obeys  the  magic  of  chemical  force. 
These  are  phenomena  which  we  have  seen;  we  know  them  and  we 


246 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


can  reproduce  them  at  our  pleasure.  We  have  advanced  a little 
way  into  the  secrets  of  nature,  and  from  the  spot  we  have  gained 
we  look  forward  with  a vision  somewhat  brightened  by  our  task; 
but  we  discover  so  much  yet  unknown  that  we  learn  another  truth 
— our  vast  ignorance  of  many  things  relating  to  this  grain  of  dust. 

It  gathers  around  it  other  particles;  they  cling  together,  and 
each  acting  upon  every  other  one,  and  all  of  them  arranging  them- 
selves around  the  little  center,  according  to  some  law,  a beautiful 
crystal  results,  the  geometric  perfection  of  its  form  being  a source 
of  admiration. 

It  quickens  with  yet  undiscovered  energies ; it  moves  with  life ; 
dust  and  vital  forqe  combine;  blood  and  bone,  nerve  and  muscle 
result  from  the  combination.  Forces  which  we  can  not,  by  the 
utmost  refinements  of  our  philosophy  detect,  direct  the  whole,  and 
from  the  same  dust  which  formed  the  rock  and  grew  in  the  tree,  is 
produced  a living  and  a breathing  thing,  capable  of  receiving  a 
divine  illumination,  of  bearing  in  its  new  state  the  gladness  and 
the  glory  of  a soul. 


The  Mocking  Bird. 

The  plumage  of  the  mocking  bird,  though  none  of  the  home- 
liest, has  nothing  gaudy  or  brilliant  in  it;  and,  had  he  nothing  else 
to  recommend  him,  would  scarcely  entitle  him  to  notice,  but  his 
figure  is  well  proportioned  and  even  handsome.  The  ease,  elegance, 
and  rapidity  of  his  movements,  the  animation  of  his  eye,  and  the 
intelligence  he  displays  in  listening  and  laying  up  lessons  from 
almost  every  species  of  the  feathered  creation  within  his  hearing, 
are  really  surprising,  and  mark  the  peculiarity  of  his  genius.  To 
these  qualities  we  may  add  that  of  a voice  full,  strong,  and  musical, 
and  capable  of  almost  every  modulation,  from  the  clear  mellow 
tones  of  the  wood  thrush  to  the  savage  scream  of  the  bald  eagle. 
In  measure  and  accent  he  faithfully  follows  his  originals.  In  force 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


247 


and  sweetness  of  expression  he  greatly  improves  upon  them.  In 
his  native  groves,  mounted  on  the  top  of  a tall  bush  or  half-grown 
tree,  in  the  dawn  of  a dewy  morning,  while  the  woods  are  already 
vocal  with  a multitude  of  warblers,  his  admirable  song  rises  pre- 
eminent over  every  competitor.  The  ear  can  listen  to  his  music 
alone,  to  which  that  of  all  the  others  seems  a mere  accompani- 
ment. Neither  is  this  strain  altogether  imitative.  His  own  native 
notes,  which  are  easily  distinguishable  by  such  as  are  well  ac- 
quainted with  those  of  our  various  song  birds,  are  bold  and  full, 
and  varied  seemingly  beyond  all  limits.  They  consist  of  short  ex- 
pressions of  two,  three,  or  at  the  most,  five  or  six  syllables;  gen- 
erally interspersed  with  imitations,  and  all  of  them  uttered  with 
great  emphasis  and  rapidity,  and  continued  with  undiminished 
ardor,  for  half  an  hour  or  an  hour  at  a time,  his  expanded  wings 
and  tail,  glistening  with  white,  and  the  buoyant  gayety  of  his  ac- 
tion, arresting  the  eye,  as  his  song  most  irresistibly  does  the  ear. 
He  sweeps  round  with  enthusiastic  ecstacy — he  mounts  and  de- 
scends as  his  song  swells  or  dies  away;  and,  as  my  friend  Mr.  Bar- 
tram  has  beautifully  expressed  it,  “He  bounds  aloft  with  the  celerity 
of  an  arrow,  as  if  to  recover  or  recall  his  very  soul,  expired  in  the 
last  elevated  strain.”  While  thus  exerting  himself,  a by-stander, 
destitute  of  sight,  would  suppose  that  the  whole  feathered  tribe  had 
assembled  together,  on  a trial  of  skill,  each  striving  to  produce  his 
utmost  effect,  so  perfect  are  his  imitations.  He  many  times  de- 
ceives the  sportsman,  and  sends  him  in  search  of  birds  that  per- 
haps are  not  within  miles  of  him,  but  whose  notes  he  exactly  imi- 
tates. Even  birds  themselves  are  frequently  imposed  on  by  this 
admirable  mimic,  and  are  decoyed  by  the  fancied  call  of  their 
mates,  or  dive,  with  precipitation,  into  the  depths  of  thickets,  at 
the  scream  of  what  they  suppose  to  be  the  sparrow  hawk. 

The  mocking  bird  loses  little  of  the  power  and  energy  of  his 
song  by  confinement.  In  his  domesticated  state,  when  he  com- 
mences his  career  of  song,  it  is  impossible  to  stand  by  uninterested. 
He  whistles  for  the  dog;  Cassar  starts  up,  wags  his  tail,  and  runs 
to  meet  his  master.  He  squeaks  out  like  a hurt  chicken,  and  the 


248 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


hen  hurries  about  with  hanging  wings,  and  bristled  feathers,  cluck- 
ing to  protect  its  injured  brood.  The  barking  of  the  dog,  the  mew- 
ing of  the  cat,  the  creaking  of  a passing  wheelbarrow,  follow 
with  great  truth  and  rapidity.  He  repeats  the  tune  taught  him  by 
his  master,  though  of  considerable  length,  fully  and  faithfully. 
He  runs  over  the  quaverings  of  the  canary,  and  the  clear  whistlings 
of  the  Virginian  nightingale,  or  red-bird,  with  such  superior  execu- 
tion and  effect,  that  the  mortified  songsters  feel  their  own  inferior- 
ity, and  become  altogether  silent;  while  he  seems  to  triumph  in 
their  defeat  by  redoubling  his  exertions. 

This  excessive  fondness  for  variety,  however,  in  the  opinion  of 
some,  injures  his  song.  His  elevated  imitations  of  the  brown 
thrush  are  frequently  interrupted  by  the  crowing  of  cocks ; and 
the  warblings  of  the  blue-bird,  which  he  exquisitely  manages,  are 
mingled  with  the  screaming  of  swallows,  or  the  cackling  of  hens ; 
amidst  the  simple  melody  of  the  robin  we  are  suddenly  surprised 
by  the  shrill  reiterations  of  the  whip-poor-will;  while  the  notes  of  the 
kildeer,  bluejay,  martin,  Baltimore,  and  twenty  others,  succeed  with 
such  imposing  reality,  that  we  look  round  for  the  originals,  and  dis- 
cover, with  astonishment,  that  the  sole  performer  in  this  singular 
concert  is  the  admirable  bird  now  before  us.  During  this  exhibition 
of  his  powers  he  spreads  his  wings,  expands  his  tail,  and  throws 
himself  around  the  cage  in  all  the  ecstasy  of  enthusiasm,  seeming 
not  only  to  sing,  but  to  dance,  keeping  time  to  the  measure  of  his 
own  music.  Both  in  his  native  and  domesticated  state,  during  the 
solemn  stillness  of  night,  as  soon  as  the  moon  rises  in  silent  maj- 
esty, he  begins  his  delightful  solo;  and  serenades  us  the  livelong 
night  with  a full  display  of  his  vocal  powers,  making  the  whole 
neighborhood  ring  with  his  inimitable  medley. 


WALTER  SCOTT. 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


249 


WALTER  SCOTT. 


SIB  WALTER  SCOTT  was  born  in  the  city  of  Edinburgh 
on  the  15th  of  August,  1771.  After  an  unusually 
busy  and  successful  literary  life,  he  died  on  the  21st  of  Sep- 
tember, 1832.  The  poet  and  novelist  was  well  related  and 
he  came  from  good  ancient  Scottish  families.  Delicate 
health,  arising  chiefly  from  lameness,  led  to  his  being  placed 
under  charge  of  some  relations  iri  the  country.  His  early 
impressions  from  country  life  and  Border  stories,  he  received 
while  residing  with  his  grandfather  at  Sandy-Knowe,  an  ex- 
tremely romantic  situation  near  Kelso.  At  an  early  age,  he 
had  tried  his  hand  at  verse  with  considerable  success.  He 
passed  through  the  High  School  and  University  of  Edinburgh. 
Although  he  made  some  proficiency  in  Latin,  and  in  classes 
of  ethics,  moral  philosophy  and  history,  “he  had  an  aver- 
sion to  Greek,  and  we  may  regret,  with  Lord  Lytton,  ‘that 
he  refused  to  enter  into  that  chamber  in  the  magic  palace 
of  literature  in  which  the  sublimest  relics  of  antiquity  are 
stored.’  ” Being  a great  reader,  he  had  gathered  a vast 
variety  of  miscellaneous  knowledge.  Romances  and  stories 
were  his  chief  delight. 

His  earliest  literary  labors  were  translations.  “ In  1796, 
he  published  translations  of  Burger’s  Lenore  and  The  Wild 
Huntsman,  ballads  of  singular  wildness  and  power.”  In 
1799,  appeared  his  translation  of  Goethe’s  tragedy,  Goetz 
von  Berlichingen.  In  1799,  he  was  appointed  sheriff  of  Sel- 
kirkshire at  a salary  of  £300  per  annum.  Scott  now  visited 


250 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


the  country  for  the  purpose  of  collecting  the  ballad  poetry 
of  Scotland.  As  a result,  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border 
appeared  in  1802.  After  other  work  of  importance,  his  Lay 
of  the  Last  Minstrel  appeared  in  1805,  “ which  instantly 
stamped  him  as  one  of  the  greatest  poets  of  the  age.”  The 
tide  of  his  popularity  had  now  fully  set  in,  and  as  of  Burns, 
the  people  murmured  of  him  from  shore  to  shore.  * 

In  1808  appeared  the  great  poem  Marmion,  and  also  his 
edition  of  Dryden.  Lady  of  the  Lake  was  published  in  1810. 
In  1811,  The  Vision  of  Don  Roderick ; in  1813,  Rokehy,  and 
The  Bridal  of  Triermain ; 1814,  The  Lord  of  the  Isles ; 1815, 
The  Field  of  Waterloo;  and  in  1817,  Harold  the  Dauntless. 

“So  early  as  1805,  before  his  great  poems  were  produced, 
Scott  had  entered  on  the  composition  of  Waverly,  the  first 
of  his  illustrious  progeny  of  tales.”  Waverly  appeared  in 
1814,  and  was  received  with  “ unmingled  applause.”  For 
fear  that  he  would  compromise  his  reputation  as  a poet,  Scott 
did  not  prefix  his  name  to  the  work.  In  1815  appeared 
Guy  Mannering;  in  1816,  The  Antiquary , and  also  The  Black 
Dwarf,  and  Old  Mortality.  “ The  year  1818  witnessed  two 
other  coinages  from  Waverly  mint,  Rob  Roy  and  The  Heart 
of  Mid-Lothian.  ” The  Bride  of  Lammermoor,  a story  of  sus- 
tained and  overwhelming  pathos,  appeared  in  1819. 

Ivanhoe,  from  which  we  have  taken  our  selection,  ap- 
peared in  1820.  For  want  of  space,  we  must  omit  mention 
of  Scott’s  other  excellent  works,  and  pass  to  a brief  sketch 
of  his  life. 

He  studied  law,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  at  the  age 
of  twenty-one.  He  joined  the  Tory  party,  and  became  one 
of  a band  of  volunteers  to  defend  his  country.  After  his 
first  love  disappointment,  he  was  finally  married  to  Char- 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


251 


lotte  Margaret  Carpenter  in  1797.  “ Miss  Carpenter  had 

some  fortune  and  the  young  couple  retired  to  a cottage  at 
Lasswade,  where  they  seem  to  have  enjoyed  sincere  and  un- 
alloyed happiness.” 

The  success  of  Scott’s  works  gained  for  him  a large  for- 
tune. At  a princely  outlay,  he  purchased  land  and  fitted  up 
a home  known  now  by  the  immortal  name  of  Abbotsford. 
Princes,  peers  and  poets — men  of  all  grades — were  his  con- 
stant visitors.  Failure  of  his  publishers  left  him  heavily  in 
debt.  In  his  old  age,  Scott  undertook  the  task  of  paying  a 
debt  of  £120,000.  “ The  fountain  was  awakened  from  its 

inmost  recess,  as  if  the  spirit  of  affliction  had  troubled  it  in 
his  passage,  ” and  before  his  death,  the  commercial  debt  was 
reduced  to  £54,000. 

“ In  six  years,  Scott  had  nearly  reached  the  goal  of  his 
ambition.  He  had  ranged  the  wide  fields  of  romance,  and 
the  public  had  liberally  rewarded  their  illustrious  favorite. 
The  ultimate  prize  was  within  view,  and  the  world  cheered 
him  on,  eagerly  anticipating  his  triumph ; but  the  victor 
sank  exhausted  on  the  course.  He  had  spent  his  life  in  the 
struggle.  The  strong  man  was  bowed  down,  and  his  living 
honor,  genius,  and  integrity  were  extinguished  by  delirium 
and  death. 

“About  half  past  one,  p.  m.,”  says  Mr.  Lockhart,  “on 
the  21st  of  September,  1832,  Sir  Walter  breathed  his  la'st 
in  the  presence  of  all  his  children.  It  was  a beautiful  day 
— so  warm  that  every  window  was  wide  open — and  so  per^ 
fectly  still  that  the  sound  of  all  others  most  delicious  to  his 
ear,  the  gentle  ripple  of  the  Tweed  over  its  pebbles,  was  dis- 
tinctly audible  as  we  knelt  around  the  bed,  and  his  eldest  son 
kissed  and  closed  his  eyes.” 


252 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


Rebecca’ s Description  of  the  Siege. 

In  the  “Passage  of  Arms”  on  the  memorable  field  of  Ashby - 
de-la-Zouche,  Ivanhoe,  known  as  the  disinherited  knight,  was 
named  by  Prince  John  as  the  champion  of  the  day.  Although  the 
head  of  a lance  had  penetrated  his  breastplate,  and  inflicted  a 
wound,  yet  he  bore  up  till  he  had  been  named  Champion,  and  had 
received  the  Chaplet  of  Honor,  from  the  Queen  of  Love  and  Beauty. 
Ivanhoe  was  taken  to  the  castle  commanded  by  the  Templar  Bois- 
Guilhert  and  the  Baron  Front-de-Boeuf.  "While  lodged  within  the 
castle,  Ivanhoe’s  friends, under  the  leadership  of  the  Black  Knight, 
advanced  to  the  rescue.  The  rest  is  fully  explained  in  the  text,  in 
the  conversation  between  Rebecca  and  Ivanhoe.  But  Ivanhoe  was 
like  the  war-horse  of  that  sublime  passage,  glowing  with  impatience 
at  his  inactivity,  and  with  his  ardent  desire  to  mingle  in  the  affray 
of  which  these  sounds  were  the  introduction.  “If  I could  but  drag 
myself,”  he  said,  “to  yonder  window,  that  I might  see  how  this 
brave  game  is  like  to  go.  If  I had  but  bow  to  shoot  a shaft,  or 
battle-axe  to  strike,  were  it  but  a single  blow  for  our  deliverance ! 
It  is  in  vain — it  is  in  vain — I am  alike  nerveless  and  weaponless.” 
“Fret  not  thyself,  noble  knight,”  answered  Rebecca,  “the  sounds 
have  ceased  of  a sudden — it  may  be  they  join  not  battle.” 

“Thou  knowest  nought  of  it,”  said  Wilfred,  impatiently;  “this 
dead  pause  only  shows  that  the  men  are  at  their  posts  on  the  walls, 
and  expecting  lj.  instant  attack ; what  we  have  heard  was  but  the  dis- 
tant muttering  of  the  storm — it  will  burst  anon  in  all  its  fury. 
Could  I but  reach  yonder  window!”  “Thou  wilt  but  injure  thyself 
by  the  attempt,  noble  knight,”  replied  his  attendant.  Observing 
his  extreme  solicitude,  she  firmly  added,  “I  myself  will  stand  at  the 
lattice,  and  describe  to  you  as  I can  what  passes  without.” 

“You  must  not — you  shall  not!”  exclaimed  Ivanhoe ; “each  lat- 
tice, each  aperture,  will  be  soon  a mark  for  the  archers;  some  ran- 
dom shaft — ” “It  shall  be  welcome!”  muttered  Rebecca,  as  with 


TKEASUKES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


258 


firm  pace  she  ascended  two  or  three  steps  which  led  to  the  window  of 
which  they  spoke.  “Rebecca,  dear  Rebecca!”  exclaimed  Ivanhoe, 
“this  is  no  maiden’s  pastime — do  not  expose  thyself  to  wounds  and 
death,  and  render  me  forever  miserable  for  having  given  thee  occa- 
sion; at  least,  cover  thyself  with  yonder  ancient  buckler,  and  show 
as  little  of  your  person  at  the  lattice  as  may  be.”  Following  with 
wonderful  promptitude  the  directions  of  Ivanhoe,  and  availing  her- 
self of  the  protection  of  the  large  ancient  shield,  which  she  placed 
against  the  lower  part  of  the  window,  Rebecca,  with  tolerable  secu- 
rity to  herself,  could  witness  part  of  what  was  passing  without  the 
castle,  and  report  to  Ivanhoe  the  preparations  which  the  assailants 
were  making  for  the  storm.  Indeed,  the  situation  which  she  thus 
obtained  was  peculiarly  favorable  for  this  purpose,  because,  being 
placed  on  an  angle  of  the  main  building,  Rebecca  could  not  only 
see  what  passed  beyond  the  precincts  of  the  castle,  but  also  com- 
manded a view  of  the  out- work  likely  to  be  the  first  object  of  the 
meditated  assault.  It  was  an  exterior  fortification  of  no  great 
height,  or  strength,  intended  to  protect  the  postern-gate,  through 
which  Cedric  had  been  recently  dismissed  by  Front-de-Boeuf.  The 
castle  moat  divided  this  species  of  barbican  from  the  rest  of  the 
fortress,  so  that,  in  case  of  its  being  taken,  it  was  easy  to  cut  ofl 
the  communication  with  the  main  building,  by  withdrawing  the 
temporary  bridge.  In  the  out-work  was  a sally-port  corresponding 
to  the  postern  of  the  castle,  and  the  whole  was  surrounded  by  a 
strong  palisade.  Rebecca  could  observe  from  the  number  of  men 
placed  for  the  defence  of  this  post,  that  the  besieged  entertained 
apprehension  for  its  safety;  and  from  the  mustering  of  the  assail- 
ants in  a direction  nearly  opposite  to  the  out-work,  it  seemed  no 
less  jJain  that  it  had  been  selected  as  a vulnerable  point  of  attack. 
These  appearances  she  hastily  communicated  to  Ivanhoe,  and  added, 
“The  skirts  of  the  wood  seemed  lined  with  archers,  although  only  a 
few  are  advanced  from  its  dark  shadow.  ” 

“Under  what  banner?”  asked  Ivanhoe.  “Under  no  ensign  of 
war  which  I can  observe,”  answered  Rebecca. 

“A  singular  novelty, ” muttered  the  Knight,  “to  advance  to  storm 


254 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


such  a castle  without  pennon  or  banner  displayed!  Seest  thou  who 
they  be  that  act  as  leaders?  “A  knight,  clad  in  sable  armor,  is 
the  most  conspicuous,”  said  the  Jewess;  “he  alone  is  armed  from 
head  to  heel,  and  seems  to  assume  the  direction  of  all  round  him.” 
“What  device  does  he  bear  on  his  shield?”  inquired  Ivanhoe. 

“Something  resembling  a bar  of  iron,  and  a padlock  painted 
blue  on  the  black  shield.” 

“A  fetterlock  and  shackle-bolt  azure,”  said  Ivanhoe;  “I  know 
not  who  may  bear  the  device,  but  well  I ween  it  might  now  be  mine 
own.  Canst  thou  not  see  the  motto?” 

“Scarce  the  device  itself , at  this  distance,”  replied  Rebecca; 
“but  when  the  sun  glances  fair  upon  his  shield,  it  shows  as  I tell 
you.” 

“Seem  there  no  other  leaders?”  exclaimed  the  anxious  inquirer. 
“None  of  mark  and  distinction  that  I can  behold  from  this  station,” 
said  Rebecca,  “but,  doubtless,  the  other  side  of  the  castle  is  also 
assailed.  They  appear  even  now  preparing  to  advance, — God  of 
Zion,  protect  us! — What  a dreadful  sight! — Those  who  advanced 
first  bear  huge  shields,  and  defences  made  of  plank;  the  others  fol- 
low, bending  their  bows  as  they  come  on.  They  raise  their  bows! 
God  of  Moses,  forgive  the  creatures  thou  hast  made ! ” 

Her  description  was  here  suddenly  interrupted  by  the  signal 
for  assault,  which  was  given  by  the  blast  of  a shrill  bugle,  and  at 
once  answered  by  a flourish  of  the  Norman  trumpets  from  the  bat- 
tlements, which  mingled  with  the  deep  and  hollow  clang  of  the 
nakers*(a  species  of  kettle-drum,)  retorted  in  notes  of  defiance 
the  challenge  of  the  enemy.  The  shouts  of  both  parties  augmented 
the  fearful  din,  the  assailants  crying,  “Saint  George  for  merry  Eng- 
land!” and  the  Normans  answering  them  with  loud  cries  of  “JEn- 
avant  de  JBracy ! — Beau  seant ! — Front-de~Boeuf  a la  rescousse!”  ac- 
cording to  the  war  cries  of  their  different  commanders. 

It  was  not,  however,  by  clamor  that  the  contest  was  to  be 
decided,  and  the  desperate  efforts  of  the  assailants  were  met  by  an 
equally  vigorous  defence  on  the  part  of  the  besieged.  The  archers, 
trained  by  their  woodland  pastimes  to  the  most  effective  use  of  the 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


255 


long-bow,  shot,  to  use  the  appropriate  phrase  of  the  time,  so  “wholly 
together,”  that  no  point  at  which  a defender  could  show  the  least 
part  of  his  person  escaped  their  cloth -yard  shafts.  By  this  heavy 
discharge,  which  continued  as  thick  and  sharp  as  hail,  while,  not- 
withstanding, every  arrow  had  its  individual  aim,  and  flew  by 
scores  together  against  each  embrasure  and  opening  in  the  parapets, 
as  well  as  at  every  window  where  a defender  either  occasionally 
had  post,  or  might  be  suspected  to  be  stationed, — by  this  sustained 
discharge,  two  or  three  of  the  garrison  were  slain,  and  several  oth- 
ers wounded.  But,  confident  in  their  armor  of  proof,  and  in  the 
cover  which  their  situation  afforded,  the  followers  of  Front-de- 
Boeuf,  and  his  allies,  showed  an  obstinacy  in  defence  proportioned 
to  the  fury  of  the  attack,  and  replied  with  the  discharge  of  their 
large  cross-bows  as  well  as  with  their  long-bows,  slings,  and  other 
missile  weapons,  to  the  close  and  continued  shower  of  arrows;  and, 
as  the  assailants  were  necessarily  but  indifferently  protected,  did 
considerably  more  damage  than  they  received  at  their  hand.  The 
whizzing  of  shafts  and  of  missiles,  on  both  sides,  was  only  inter- 
rupted by  the  shouts  which  arose  when  either  side  inflicted  or  sus- 
tained some  notable  loss. 

“And  I must  lie  here  like  a bed-ridden  monk,”  exclaimed  Ivan - 
hoe,  “when  the  game  that  gives  me  freedom  or  death  is  played  out 
- by  the  hand  of  others! — Look  from  the  window  once  again,  kind 
maiden,  but  beware  that  you  are  not  marked  by  the  archers  beneath ! 
Look  out  once  more,  and  tell  me  if  they  yet  advance  to  the  storm.” 
With  patient  courage,  strengthened  by  the  interval  which  she  had 
employed  in  mental  devotion,  Rebecca  again  took  post  at  the  lat- 
tice, sheltering  herself,  however,  so  as  not  be  visible  from  beneath. 
“What  dost  thou  see,  Rebecca?”  again  demanded  the  wounded 
knight. 

“Nothing  but  the  cloud  of  arrows  flying  so  thick  as  to  dazzle 
mine  eyes,  and  to  hide  the  bowmen  who  shoot  them.” 

“That  cannot  endure,”  said  Ivanhoe;  “if  they  press  not  right 
on  to  carry  the  castle  by  pure  force  of  arms,  the  archery  may  avail 
but  little  against  stone  walls  and  bulwarks.  Look  for  the  knight 
of  the  fetterlock,  fair  Rebecca,  and  see  how  he  bears  himself;  for 


256 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


as  the  leader  is,  so  will  his  followers  he.”  “I  see  him  not,”  said 
Rebecca. 

‘‘Foul  craven!”  exclaimed  Ivanhoe;  “does  he  blench  from  the 
helm  when  the  wind  blows  highest?” 

“He  blenches  not!  he  blenches  not!”  said  Rebecca,  “I  see  him 
now;  he  leads  a body  of  men  close  under  the  outer  barrier  of  the 
barbican.  They  pull  down  the  piles  and  palisades ; they  hew  down 
the  barriers  with  axes.  His  high  black  plume  floats  abroad  over 
the  throng,  like  a raven  over  the  field  of  the  slain.  They  have 
made  a breach  in  the  barriers — they  rush  in — they  are  thrust  back ! 
Front-de-Boeuf  heads  the  defenders,  I see  his  gigantic  form  above 
the  press.  They  throng  again  to  the  breach,  and  the  pass  is  dis- 
puted hand  to  hand  and  man  to  man.  God  of  Jacob!  it  is  the 
meeting  of  two  fierce  tides — the  conflict  of  two  oceans  moved  by 
adverse  winds ! ” She  turned  her  head  from  the  lattice,  as  if  unable 
longer  to  endure  a sight  so  terrible. 

“Look  forth  again,  Rebecca,”  said  Ivanhoe,  mistaking  the 
cause  of  her  retiring;  “the  archery  must  in  some  degree  have 
ceased,  since  they  are  now  fighting  hand  to  hand.  Look  again, 
there  is  now  less  danger.” 

Rebecca  again  looked  forth,  and  almost  immediately  exclaimed, 
“Holy  prophets  of  the  law!  Front-de-Boeuf  and  the  Black  Knight 
fight  hand  to  hand  on  the  breach,  amid  the  roar  of  their  followers 
who  watch  the  progress  of  the  strife — Heaven  strike  with  the  cause 
of  the  oppressed  and  of  the  captive!”  She  then  uttered  a loud 
shriek,  and  exclaimed,  “He  is  down ! he  is  down !” 

“Who  is  down?”  cried  Ivanhoe;  “for  our  dear  Lady’s  sake,  tell 
me  which  has  fallen?” 

“The  Black  Knight,”  answered  Rebecca,  faintly;  then  instantly 
again  shouted  with  joyful  eagerness,  “But  no — but  no! — the 
name  of  the  Lord  of  Hosts  be  blessed! — he  is  on  foot  again,  and 
fights  as  if  there  were  twenty  men’s  strength  in  his  single  arm. 
His  sword  is  broken — he  snatches  an  ax  from  a yeoman — he 
presses  Front-de-Boeuf  with  blow  on  blow.  The  giant  stoops  and 
totters  like  an  oak  under  the  steel  of  the  woodman.  He  falls — he 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


257 


“Front-de-Boeuf?”  exclaimed  Ivanhoe. 

“Front-de-Boeuf !”  answered  the  Jewess;  “his  men  rush  to  the 
rescue,  headed  by  the  haughty  Templar — their  united  force  com- 
pels the  champion  to  pause.  They  drag  Front-de-Boeuf  within 
the  walls.” 

“The  assailants  have  won  the  barriers,  have  they  not?”  said 
Ivanhoe. 

“They  have — they  have!”  exclaimed  Rebecca — “and  they  press 
the  besieged  hard  upon  the  outer  wall;  some  plant  ladders,  some 
swarm  like  bees,  and  endeavor  to  ascend  upon  the  shoulders  of 
each  other — down  go  stones,  beams,  and  trunks  of  trees  upon  their 
heads,  and  as  fast  as  they  bear  the  wounded  to  the  rear,  fresh  men 
supply  their  places  in  the  assault.  Great  God!  hast  thou  given 
men  thine  own  image,  that  it  should  be  thus  cruelly  defaced  by  the 
hands  of  their  brethren ! ” 

“Think  not  of  that,”  said  Ivanhoe;  “this  is  no  time  for  such 
thoughts. — Who  yield?  who  push  their  way?” 

“The  ladders  are  thrown  down,”  replied  Rebecca,  shuddering; 
“the  soldiers  lie  groveling  under  them  like  crushed  reptiles.  The 
besieged  have  the  better.  ” 

“Saint  George  strike  for  us!”  exclaimed  the  Knight;  “do  the 
false  yeomen  give  way?” 

“No!”  exclaimed  Rebecca,  “they  bear  themselves  right  yeoman- 
ly — the  Black  Knight  approaches  the  postern  with  his  huge  ax — 
the  thundering  blows  which  he  deals,  you  may  hear  them  above  all 
the  din  and  shouts  of  the  battle.  Stones  and  beams  are  hailed 
down  on  the  bold  champion — he  regards  them  no  more  than  if  they 
were  thistledown  or  feathers ! ” 

“By  Saint  John  of  Acre,”  said  Ivanhoe,  raising  himself  joy- 
fully on  his  couch,  “methought  there  was  but  one  man  in  England 
that  might  do  such  a deed.  ” 

“The  postern  gate  shakes,”  continued  Rebecca ; “it  crashes — it 
is  splintered  by  his  blows — they  rush  in — the  out-work  is  won. 
Oh,  God! — they  hurl  the  defenders  from  the  battlements — they 
throw  them  into  the  moat.  0 men,  if  ye  be  indeed  men,  spare 
them  that  can  resist  no  longer!” 


258 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


“The  bridge — the  bridge  which  communicates  with  the  castle — 
have  they  won  that  pass?”  exclaimed  Ivanhoe. 

“No,”  replied  Rebecca,  “the  Templar  has  destroyed  the  plank 
on  which  they  crossed — few  of  the  defenders  escaped  with  him  into 
the  castle — the  shrieks  and  cries  which  you  hear,  tell  the  fate  of  the 
others.  Alas ! I see  it  is  still  more  difficult  to  look  upon  victory 
than  upon  battle.” 

“What  do  they  now,  maiden?”  said  Ivanhoe;  “look  forth  yet 
again — this  is  no  time  to  faint  at  bloodshed.”  “It  is  over  for  the 
time,”  said  Rebecca;  “our  friends  strengthen  themselves  within  the 
out-work  which  they  have  mastered,  and  it  affords  them  so  good  a 
shelter  from  the  foemen’s  shot,  that  the  garrison  only  bestow  a few 
bolts  on  it  from  interval  to  interval,  as  if  rather  to  disquiet  than 
effectually  to  injure  them.” 

“Our  friends,”  said  Wilfred,  “will  surely  not  abandon  an  enter- 
prise so  gloriously  begun  and  so  happily  attained.  Oh,  no!  I will 
put  my  faith  in  the  good  knight  whose  ax  hath  rent  heart  of 
oak  and  bars  of  iron, — singular,”  he  again  muttered  to  himself, 
c'if  there  he  two  who  can  do  a deed  of  such  derring — do! — a fetter- 
lock, and  a shackle-bolt  on  a field  sable — what  may  that  mean — 
seest  thou  nought  else,  Rebecca,  by  which  the  Black  Knight  may  he 
distinguished?” 

“Nothing,”  said  the  Jewess;  “all  about  him  is  black  as  the 
wing  of  the  night  raven.  Nothing  can  I spy  that  can  mark  him 
further;  hut  having  once  seen  him  put  forth  his  strength  in  battle, 
methinks  I could  know  him  again  among  a thousand  warriors.  He 
rushes  to  the  fray  as  if  he  were  summoned  to  a banquet.  There 
is  more  than  mere  strength — there  seems  as  if  the  whole  soul  and 
spirit  of  the  champion  were  given  to  every  blow  which  he  deals 
upon  his  enemies.  God  assoilzie  him  of  the  sin  of  blood-shed! — 
it  is  fearful,  yet  magnificent,  to  behold  how  the  arm  and  heart  of 
one  man  can  triumph  over  hundreds.” 

“Rebecca,”  said  Ivanhoe,  “thou  hast  painted  a hero;  surely 
they  rest  hut  to  refresh  their  force,  or  to  provide  the  means  of 
grossing  the  moat.  Under  such  a leader  as  thou  hast  spoken  this 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


259 


knight  to  be,  there  are  no  craven  fears,  no  cold-blooded  delays,  no 
yielding  up  a gallant  emprize;  since  the  difficulties  which  render  it 
arduous  render  it  also  glorious.  I swear  by  the  honor  of  my  house 
— I vow  by  the  name  of  my  bright  lady-love,  I would  endure  ten 
years  captivity  to  fight  one  day  by  that  good  knight’s  side  in  such  a 
quarrel  as  this!” 

“Alas!”  said  Eebecca,  leaving  her  station  at  the  window,  and 
approaching  the  couch  of  the  wounded  knight,  “this  impatient 
yearning  after  action — this  struggling  with  and  repining  at  your 
present  weakness,  will  not  fail  to  injure  your  returning  health. 
How  couldst  thou  hope  to  inflict  wounds  on  others,  ere  that  be 
healed  which  thyself  hast  received?” 

“Eebecca,”  he  replied,  “thou  knowest  not  how  impossible  it  is 
for  one  trained  to  actions  of  chivalry,  to  remain  passive  as  a priest, 
or  a woman,  when  they  are  acting  deeds  of  honor  around  him. 
The  love  of  battle  is  the  food  upon  which  we  five — the  dust  of  the 
mellay  is  the  breath  of  our  nostrils!  We  live  not — we  wish  not  to 
live,  longer  than  while  we  are  victorious  and  renowned.  Such, 
maiden,  are  the  laws  of  chivalry  to  which  we  are  sworn  and  to 
which  w§  offer  all  that  we  hold  dear.” 

“Alas!”  said  the  fair  Jewess,  “and  what  is  it,  valiant  knight, 
save  an  offering  of  sacrifice  to  a demon  of  vain  glory,  and  a pass- 
ing through  the  fire  to  Moloch  ? What  remains  to  you  as  the  prize 
of  all  the  blood  you  have  spilled — of  all  the  travel  and  pain  you 
have  endured — of  all  the  tears  which  your  deeds  have  caused,  when 
death  hath  broken  the  strong  man’s  spear  and  overtaken  the  speed 
of  his  war-horse?” 

“What  remains?”  cried  Ivanhoe.  “Glory,  maiden,  glory!  which 
gilds  our  sepulchre  and  embalms  our  name.” 

“Glory?”  continued  Eebecca;  “alas!  is  the  rusted  mail  which 
hangs  as  a hatchment  over  the  champion’s  dim  and  moldering 
tomb — is  the  defaced  sculpture  of  the  inscription  which  the  ignor- 
ant monk  can  hardly  read  to  the  inquiring  pilgrim — are  these  suf- 
ficient rewards  for  the  sacrifice  of  every  kindly  affection,  for  a life 
spent  miserably  that  ye  may  make  others  miserable?  Or  is  there 


260 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


such  virtue  in  the  rude  rhymes  of  a wandering  bard,  that  domestic 
love,  kindly  affection,  peace  and  happiness,  are  so  widely  bartered, 
to  become  the  hero  of  those  ballads  which  vagabond  minstrels  sing 
to  drunken  churls  over  their  evening  ale?” 


The  Works  of  Creation. 


I was  yesterday,  about  sunset,  walking  in  the  open  fields,  until 
the  night  insensibly  fell  upon  me.  I at  first  amused  myself  with  all 
the  richness  and  variety  of  colors  which  appeared  in  the  western 
parts  of  heaven.  In  proportion  as  they  faded  away  and  went  out, 
several  stars  and  planets  appeared  one  after  another,  until  the  whole 
firmament  was  in  a glow.  The  blueness  of  the  ether  was  exceed- 
ingly heightened  and  enlivened  by  the  season  of  the  year,  and  by 
the  rays  of  all  those  luminaries  that  passed  through  it.  The  galaxy 
appeared  in  its  most  beautiful  white.  To  complete  the  scene,  the 
full  moon  rose  at  length  in  that  clouded  majesty  which  Milton  takes 
notice  of,  and  opened  to  the  eye  a new  picture  of  nature,  which  was 
more  finely  shaded  and  disposed  among  softer  lights,  than  that 
which  the  sun  had  before  discovered  to  us. 

As  I was  surveying  the  moon  walking  in  her  brightness,  and 
taking  her  progress  among  the  constellations,  a thought  rose  in  me 
which  I believe  very  often  perplexes  me  and  disturbs  men  of 
serious  and  contemplative  nature.  David  himself  fell  into  it  in 
that  reflection:  “When  I consider  the  heavens  the  work  of  thy  fin- 
gers, the  moon  and  the  stars  which  thou  hast  ordained,  what  is 
man  that  thou  art  mindful  of  him,  and  the  son  of  man  that  thou 
regardest  him?”  In  the  same  manner,  when  I considered  that  in- 
finite host  of  stars,  or,  to  speak  more  philosophically,  of  suns, 
which  were  then  shining  upon  me,  with  those  innumerable  sets  of 

planets  or  worlds  which  were  moving  round  their  respective  suns 

when  I still  enlarged  the  idea,  and  supposed  another  heaven  of 


TEEASUEES  FEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


261 


suns  and  worlds  rising  still  above  this  which  we  discovered,  and 
these  still  enlightened  by  a superior  firmament  of  luminaries,  which 
are  planted  at  so  great  a distance  that  they  may  appear  to  the 
inhabitants  of  the  former  as  the  stars  do  to  us — in  short,  while  I 
pursued  this  thought  I could  not  but  reflect  on  that  little  insignifi- 
cant figure  which  I myself  bore  amidst  the  immensity  of  God’s 
works. 

Were  the  sun  which  enlightens  this  part  of  the  creation,  with 
all  the  host  of  planetary  worlds  that  move  about  him,  utterly  extin- 
guished and  annihilated,  they  would  not  be  missed  more  than  a grain 
of  sand  upon  the  sea  shore.  The  space  they  possess  is  so  exceeding- 
ly little  in  comparison  with  the  whole,  that  it  would  scarcely  make  a 
blank  in  the  creation.  The  chasm  would  be  imperceptible  to  an 
eye  that  could  take  in  the  whole  compass  of  nature,  and  pass  from 
one  end  of  the  creation  to  the  other;  as  it  is  possible  there  may  be 
such  a sense  in  ourselves  hereafter,  or  in  creatures  which  are  at 
present  more  exalted  than  ourselves.  We  see  many  stars  by  the 
help  of  glasses  which  we  do  not  discover  with  our  naked  eyes ; and 
the  finer  our  telescopes  are,  the  more  still  are  our  discoveries. 

Huygenius  carries  this  thought  so  far,  that  he  does  not  think 
it  impossible  there  may  be  stars  whose  light  has  not  yet  traveled 
down  to  us  since  their  first  creation.  There  is  no  question  but  the 
universe  has  certain  bounds  set  to  it ; but  when  we  consider  that  it 
is  the  work  of  infinite  power  prompted  by  infinite  goodness,  with 
an  infinite  space  to  exert  itself  in,  how  can  our  imagination  set 
any  bounds  to  it? 

To  return,  therefore,  to  my  first  thought;  I could  not  but  look 
upon  myself  with  secret  horror  as  a being  that  was  not  worth  the 
smallest  regard  of  one  who  had  so  great  a work  under  his  care  and 
superintendency.  I was  afraid  of  being  overlooked  amidst  the 
immensity  of  nature,  and  lost  among  that  infinite  variety  of  crea- 
tures which  in  all  probability  swarm  through  all  these  immeasur- 
able regions  of  matter. 

In  order  to  recover  myself  from  this  mortifying  thought,  I 
considered  that  it  took  its  rise  from  those  narrow  conceptions  which 


262 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


we  are  apt  to  entertain  of  the  divine  nature.  We  ourselves  cannot 
attend  to  many  different  objects  at  the  same  time.  If  we  are  care- 
ful to  inspect  some  things,  we  must  of  course  neglect  others.  This 
imperfection  which  we  observe  in  ourselves  is  an  imperfection  that 
cleaves  in  some  degree  to  creatures  of  the  highest  capacities,  as  they 
are  creatures;  that  is,  beings  of  finite  and  limited  natures.  The 
presence  of  every  created  being  is  confined  to  a certain  measure  of 
space,  and  consequently  his  observation  is  stinted  to  a certain  num- 
ber of  objects.  The  sphere  in  which  we  move,  and  act,  and  under- 
stand, is  of  a wider  circumference  to  one  creature  than  another, 
according  as  we  rise  one  above  another  in  the  scale  of  existence. 
But  the  widest  of  these,  our  spheres,  has  its  circumference. 
When,  therefore,  we  reflect  on  the  divine  nature,  we  are  so  used 
and  accustomed  to  this  imperfection  in  ourselves,  that  we  cannot 
forbear  in  some  measure  ascribing  it  to  Him  in  whom  there  is  no 
shadow  of  imperfection.  Our  reason  indeed  assures  us  that  his 
attributes  are  infinite,  but  the  poorness  of  our  conceptions  is  such, 
that  it  cannot  forbear  setting  hounds  to  everything  it  contemplates, 
until  our  reason  comes  again  to  our  succor,  and  throws  down  all 
those  little  prejudices  which  rise  in  us  unawares,  and  are  natural  to 
the  mind  of  man. 

We  shall,  therefore,  utterly  extinguish  this  melancholy  thought 
of  our  being  overlooked  by  our  Maker,  in  the  multiplicity  of  his 
works  and  the  infinity  of  those  objects  among  which  he  seems  to 
be  incessantly  employed,  if  we  consider,  in  the  first  place,  that  he 
is  omnipresent ; and  in  the  second,  that  he  is  omniscient. 

If  we  consider  him  in  his  omnipresence,  his  being  passes 
through,  actuates,  and  supports,  the  whole  frame  of  nature.  His 
creation,  and  every  part  of  it,  is  full  of  him.  There  is  nothing  he 
has  made  that  is  either  so  distant,  so  little,  or  so  inconsiderable, 
which  he  does  not  essentially  inhabit.  His  substance  is  within  the 
substance  of  every  being,  whether  material  or  immaterial,  and  as 
intimately  present  to  it  as  that  being  is  to  itself.  It  would  be  an 
imperfection  in  him  were  he  able  to  remove  out  of  one  place  into 
another,  or  to  withdraw  himself  from  anything  he  has  created,  or 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


263 


from  any  part  of  that  space  which  is  diffused  and  spread  abroad  to 
infinity.  In  short,  to  speak  of  him  in  the  language  of  the  old  phi- 
losopher, he  is  a being  whose  center  is  everywhere,  and  his  circum- 
ference nowhere. 

In  the  second  place,  he  is  omniscient  as  well  as  omnipresent. 
His  omniscience,  indeed,  necessarily  and  naturally  flows  from  his 
omnipresence;  he  cannot  hut  he  conscious  of  every  motion  that 
arises  in  the  whole  material  world,  which  he  thus  essentially  per- 
vades, and  of  every  thought  that  is  striving  in  the  intellectual 
world,  to  every  part  of  which  he  is  thus  intimately  united.  Sev- 
eral moralists  have  considered  the  creation  as  the  temple  of  God, 
which  he  has  built  with  his  own  hands,  and  which  is  filled  with  his 
presence.  Others  have  considered  infinite  space  as  the  receptacle, 
or  rather  the  habitation,  of  the  Almighty.  But  the  noblest  and 
most  exalted  way  of  considering  this  infinite  space  is  that  of  Sir 
Isaac  Newton,  who  calls  it  the  sensorium  of  the  Godhead.  Brutes 
and  men  have  their  sensoriola,  or  little  sensoriums,  by  which  they 
apprehend  the  presence  and  perceive  the  actions  of  a few  objects 
that  he  contiguous  to  them.  Their  knowledge  and  observation  turn 
within  a very  narrow  circle.  But  as  God  Almighty  cannot  hut  per- 
ceive and  know  everything  in  which  he  resides,  infinite  space  gives 
room  to  infinite  knowledge,  and  is,  as  it  were,  an  organ  to  omnis- 
cience. 

Were  the  soul  separate  from  the  body,  and  with  one  glance  of 
thought  should  start  beyond  the  bounds  of  the  creation — should  it 
for  millions  of  years  continue  its  progress  through  infinite  space 
with  the  same  activity — it  would  still  find  itself  within  the  embrace 
of  its  Creator,  and  encompassed  round  with  the  immensity  of  the 
Godhead.  While  we  are  in  body,  he  is  not  less  present  with  us 
because  he  is  concealed  from  us.  “Oh,  that  I knew  where  I might 
find  him!”  says  Job.  “Behold  I go  forward,  but  he  is  not  there; 
and  backward,  but  I cannot  perceive  him;  on  the  left  hand  where 
he  does  work,  but  I cannot  behold  him ; he  hideth  himself  on  the 
right  hand  that  I cannot  see  him.”  In  short,  reason  as  well  as 
revelation  assures  us  that  he  cannot  be  absent  from  us,  notwith- 
standing he  is  undiscovered  by  us. 


264 


TEEASUEES  FEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


In  the  consideration  of  God  Almighty’s  omnipresence  and  om- 
niscience, every  uncomfortable  thought  vanishes.  He  cannot  but 
regard  everything  that  has  being,  especially  such  of  his  creatures 
who  fear  they  are  not  regarded  by  him.  He  is  privy  to  all  their 
thoughts,  and  to  that  anxiety  of  heart  in  particular  ydiich  is  apt  to 
trouble  them  on  this  occasion;  for  as  it  is  impossible  he  should 
overlook  any  of  his  creatures,  so  we  may  be  confident  that  he  re- 
gards with  an  eye  of  mercy  those  who  endeavor  to  recommend 
themselves  to  his  notice,  and  in  an  unfeigned  humility  of  heart 
think  themselves  unworthy  that  he  should  be  mindful  of  them. 


We  have  just  religion  enough  to  make  us  hate,  but  not  enough 
to  make  us  love  one  another. 


When  we  desire  or  solicit  anything,  our  minds  run  wholly  on 
the  good  side  or  circumstances  of  it ; when  it  is  obtained,  our  mind 
runs  only  on  the  bad  ones. 


When  a true  genius  appeareth  in  the  world,  you  may  know 
him  by  this  infallible  sign,  that  the  dunces  are  all  in  confederacy 
against  him. 


I am  apt  to  think  that,  in  the  day  of  judgment,  there  will  be 
small  allowance  given  to  the  wise  for  their  want  of  morals,  or  to 
the  ignorant  for  their  want  of  faith,  because  both  are  without  ex 
cuse ; this  renders  the  advantages  equal  of  ignorance  and  knowl . 
edge.  But  some  scruples  in  the  wise,  and  some  vices  in  the  igno- 
rant, will  perhaps  be  forgiven  upon  the  strength  of  temptation  to 
each. 


HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE. 


TKEASUBES  EBOM  THE  PBOSE  WOBLD 


265 


HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE. 


AERIE T ELIZABETH  BEECHER  STOWE  was  born  in 


Litchfield,  Conn.,  June  15,  1812.  Her  father  was  Dr. 


Lyman  Beecher,  a distinguished  clergyman.  In  1833,  with 
her  father,  she  removed  to  Cincinnati,  where,  in  1836,  she 
was  married  to  the  Rev.  Calvin  E.  Stowe,  who  afterward 
became  professor  at  Bowdoin  College  and  at  Andover  The- 
ological School. 

Several  stories  which  she  had  written  for  the  Cincin- 
nati Gazette  and  other  periodicals,  were  collected  and  pub- 
lished in  a volume  entitled  The  Mayflower.  In  1851,  she 
commenced  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin , in  the  Washington  National 
Era.  The  story  was  afterward  published  in  Boston  in  two 
volumes.  “ Its  success  was  without  a parallel  in  the  litera- 
ture of  any  age.  Nearly  half  a million  copies  were  sold  in 
this  country,  and  a considerably  larger  number  in  England. 
It  was  translated  into  every  language  of  Europe,  and  into 
Arabic  and  Armenian.  It  was  dramatized  and  acted  in  nearly 
every  theater  in  the  world.”  In  1853  she  visited  Europe 
and  was  received  with  gratifying  attention.  Sunny  Memories 
of  Foreign  Lands  was  published  upon  her  return  from  Eu- 
rope. In  1856  appeared  Dred,  a Tale  of  the  Great  Dismal 
Sivamp.  This  work  produced  but  a slight  impression.  The 
success  of  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  probably  removed  the  charm 
of  novelty  in  the  subject  of  her  new  story.  The  Minister's 
Wooing  appeared  in  book  form  in  1859.  Agnes  of  Sorrento 
and  The  Pearl  of  Orr's  Island  were  published  in  1862  ; House 


266 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


and  Home  Papers,  in  1864;  The  Chimney  Corner,  in  1865; 
Little  Foxes,  1865;  Queer  Little  People,  1867 ; Oldtown  Folks , 
1869 ; Pink  and  White  Tyranny,  1871 ; My  Wife  and  I,  1872. 
Probably  the  great  mistake  in  her  literary  work  was  made  in 
publishing  True  Story  of  Lady  Byron's  Life.  If  true  it  should 
not  have  been  told,  but  the  story  is  thought  not  to  be  true. 

Mrs.  Stowe  has  written  very  extensively,  and  her  pub- 
lished works  entitle  her  to  a place  among  the  greatest  au- 
thors of  fiction.  While  her  fame  rests  upon  her  first  great 
book,  yet  all  of  her  works  contain  excellent  qualities.  Her 
genius  is  rare  and  original.  For  several  years,  she  has  spent 
the  greater  part  of  her  time  in  her  Florida  home,  in  com- 
pany with  her  husband  and  daughters. 

It  is  customary  with  most  authors  to  classify  female 
writers  as  the  wife  or  sister,  or  some  other  relative  of  some 
man.  Mrs.  Stowe,  however,  needs  not  the  name  of  her 
husband,  nor  the  world-wide  fame  of  the  Beechers,  to  give 
her  a place  in  the  front  ranks  of  literature.  The  world 
knows  her  as  well  as  it  knows  her  relatives,  and  its  admira- 
tion for  her  is  richly  merited. 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD.  267 


Little  Eva. 

Her  form  was  the  perfection  of  childish  beauty,  without  its 
usual  chubbiness  and  squareness  of  outline.  There  was  about  it  an 
undulating  and  aerial  grace  such  as  one  might  dream  of  for  some 
mythical  and  allegorical  being.  Her  face  was  remarkable,  less  for 
its  perfect  beauty  of  feature  than  for  a singular  and  dreamy  ear- 
nestness of  expression,  which  made  the  ideal  start  when  they  looked 
at  her,  and  by  which  the  dullest  and  most  literal  were  impressed, 
without  exactly  knowing  why.  The  shape  of  her  head  and  the 
turn  of  her  neck  and  bust  were  peculiarly  noble,  and  the  long, 
golden-brown  hair  that  floated  like  a cloud  around  it,  the  deep, 
spiritual  gravity  of  her  violet-blue  eyes,  shaded  by  heavy  fringes  of 
golden-brown — all  marked  her  out  from  other  children,  and  made 
every  one  turn  and  look  after  her,  as  she  glided  hither  and  thither 
on  the  boat.  Nevertheless,  the  little  one  was  not  what  you  would 
have  called  either  a grave  child  or  a sad  one.  On  the  contrary,  an 
airy  and  innocent  playfulness  seemed  to  flicker  like  the  shadow  of 
Summer  leaves  over  her  childish  face,  and  around  her  buoyant  fig- 
ure. She  was  always  in  motion,  always  with  half  a smile  on  her 
rosy  mouth,  flying  hither  and  thither,  with  an  undulating  and 
cloud-like  tread,  singing  to  herself  as  she  moved  as  in  a happy  dream. 
Her  father  and  female  guardian  were  incessantly  busy  in  pursuit  of 
her — but,  when  caught,  she  melted  from  them  again  like  a Sum- 
mer cloud ; and  as  no  word  of  chiding  or  reproof  ever  fell  on  her 
ear  for  whatever  she  chose  to  do,  she  pursued  her  own  way  all  over 
the  boat.  Always  dressed  in  white,  she  seemed  to  move  like  a 
shadow  through  all  sorts  of  places,  without  contracting  spot  or 
stain;  and  there  was  not  a corner  or  nook,  above  or  below,  where 
those  fairy  footsteps  had  not  glided,  and  that  visionary  golden 
head,  with  its  deep  blue  eyes,  fleeted  along. 

The  fireman,  as  he  looked  up  from  his  sweaty  toil,  sometimes 
found  those  eyes  looking  wonderingly  into  the  raging  depths  of  the 


268 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


furnace,  and  fearfully  and  pityingly  at  him,  as  if  she  thought  him 
in  some  dreadful  danger.  Anon  the  steersman  at  the  wheel  paused 
and  smiled,  as  the  picture-like  head  gleamed  through  the  window 
of  the  round  house,  and  in  a moment  was  gone  again.  A thousand 
times  a day  rough  voices  blessed  her,  and  smiles  of  unwonted  soft- 
ness stole  over  hard  faces  as  she  passed;  and  when  she  tripped 
fearlessly  over  dangerous  places,  rough,  sooty  hands  were  stretched 
involuntarily  out  to  save  her,  and  smooth  her  path. 

Tom,  who  had  the  soft,  impressible  nature  of  his  kindly  race, 
ever  yearning  towards  the  simple  and  child-like,  watched  the  little 
creature  with  daily  increasing  interest.  To  him  she  seemed  some- 
thing almost  divine ; and  whenever  her  golden  head  and  deep  blue 
eyes  peered  out  upon  him  from  behind  some  dusky  cotton-bale,  or 
looked  down  upon  him  over  some  ridge  of  packages,  he  half  be- 
lieved he  saw  one  of  the  angels  stepped  out  of  the  New  Testament. 


Uncle  Tom  Reads  His  Testament. 

Is  it  strange,  then,  that  some  tears  fall  on  the  pages  of  his 
Bible  as  he  lays  it  on  the  cotton-bale,  and  with  patient  finger 
threading  his  slow  way  from  word  to  word,  traces  out  its  promises? 
Having  learned  late  in  life,  Tom  was  but  a slow  reader,  and  passed 
on  laboriously  from  verse  to  verse.  Fortunate  for  him  was  it  that 
the  book  he  was  intent  on  was  one  which  slow  reading  cannot 
injure — nay,  one  whose  words,  like  ingots  of  gold  seem  often  to 
need  to  be  weighed  separately,  that  the  mind  may  take  in  their 
priceless  value.  Let  us  follow  him  a moment,  as,  pointing  to  each 
word,  and  pronouncing  each  half  aloud,  he  reads,— 

“Let — not — your — heart — be — troubled.  In — my — Father’s — 
house — are — many — mansions.  I — go — to — prepare — a — place — 
for — you.” 

Cicero,  when  he  buried  his  darling  and  only  daughter,  had  a 
heart  as  full  of  honest  grief  as  poor  Tom’s — perhaps  no  fuller,  for 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


269 


both  were  only  men ; but  Cicero  could  pause  over  no  such  sublime 
y words  of  hope,  and  looked  to  no  such  future  reunion;  and  if  he 
had  seen  them,  ten  to  one  he  would  not  have  believed, — he  must 
fill  his  head  first  with  a thousand  questions  of  authenticity  of  manu- 
script, and  correctness  of  translation.  But,  to  poor  Tom,  there  it 
lay,  just  what  he  needed,  so  evidently  true  and  divine  that  the  pos- 
sibility of  a question  never  entered  his  simple  head.  It  must  be 
true,  for,  if  not  true,  how  could  he  live? 

As  for  Tom’s  Bible,  though  it  had  no  annotations  and  helps  in 
the  margin  from  learned  commentators,  still  it  had  been  embellished 
with  certain  way-marks  and  guide-boards  of  Tom’s  own  invention, 
and  which  helped  him  more  than  the  most  learned  expositions 
could  have  done.  It  had  been  his  custom  to  get  the  Bible  read  to 
him  by  his  master’s  children,  in  particular  by  young  Master 
George;  and  as  they  read,  he  would  designate,  by  bold,  strong 
mark  and  dashes,  with  pen  and  ink,  the  passages  which  more  par- 
ticularly gratified  his  ear  or  affected  his  heart.  His  Bible  was  thus 
marked  through,  from  one  end  to  the  other,  with  a variety  of  styles 
and  designations,  so  he  could  in  a moment  seize  upon  his  favorite 
passages,  without  the  labor  of  spelling  out  what  lay  between  them; 
and  while  it  lay  there  before  him,  every  passage  breathing  of  some 
old  home  scene,  and  recalling  some  past  enjoyment,  his  Bible 
seemed  to  him  all  of  this  life  that  remained,  as  well  as  the  promise 
of  a future  one. 


270 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


Pledge  With.  "Wine. 

“ Pledge  with  wine — pledge  with  wine!”  cried  the  young  and 
thoughtless  Harry  Wood.  “Pledge  with  wine,”  ran  through  the 
brilliant  crowd. 

The  beautiful  bride  grew  pale — the  decisive  hour  had  come, — 
she  pressed  her  white  hands  together,  and  the  leaves  of  her  bridal 
wreath  trembled  on  her  pure  brow ; her  breath  came  quicker,  her 
heart  beat  wilder.  From  her  childhood  she  had  been  most  solemn- 
ly opposed  to  the  use  of  all  wines  and  liquors. 

“ Yes,  Marion,  lay  aside  your  scruples  for  this  once,”  said  the 
Judge,  in  a low  tone,  going  toward  his  daughter,  “the  company 
expect  it;  do  not  so  seriously  infringe  upon  the  rules  of  etiquette; 
in  your  own  house  act  as  you  please;  but  in  mine,  for  this  once 
please  me.” 

Every  eye  was  turned  toward  the  bridal  pair.  Marion’s  prin- 
ciples were  well  known.  Henry  had  been  a convivialist,  but  of 
late  his  friends  noticed  the  change  in  his  manners,  the  difference 
in  his  habits — and  to-night  they  watched  him  to  see,  as  they  sneer- 
ingly  said,  if  he  was  tied  down  to  a woman’s  opinion  so  soon. 

Pouring  a brimming  beaker,  they  held  it  with  tempting  smiles 
toward  Marion.  She  was  very  pale,  though  more  composed,  and 
her  hand  shook  not,  as  smiling  back,  gratefully  accepted  the  crystal 
tempter  and  raised  it  to  her  lips.  But  scarcely  had  she  done  so 
when  every  hand  was  arrested  by  her  piercing  exclamation  of  “Oh, 
how  terrible!” 

“What  is  it?”  cried  one  and  all,  thronging  together,  for  she 
had  slowly  carried  the  glass  at  arm’s  length,  and  was  fixedly  regard- 
ing it  as  though  it  were  some  hideous  object. 

“Wait,”  she  answered,  while  an  inspired  light  shone  from  her 
dark  eyes,  “wait  and  I will  tell  you.  I see,”  she  added,  slowly 
pointing  one  jewelled  finger  at  the  sparkling  ruby  liquid,  “ a sight 
that  beggars  all  description ; and  yet  listen ; I will  paint  it  for  you 
if  I can : It  is  a lonely  spot;  tall  mountains,  crowned  with  verdure, 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


271 


rise  in  awful  sublimity  around;  a river  runs  through,  and  bright 
flowers  grow  to  the  water’s  edge.  There  is  a thick,  warm  mist 
that  the  sun  seeks  vainly  to  pierce;  trees,  lofty  and  beautiful,  wave 
to  the  airy  motions  of  the  birds ; but  there  a group  of  Indians  gather; 
they  flit  to  and  fro  with  something  like  sorrow  upon  their  dark 
brows;  and  in  their  midst  lies  a manly  form,  but  his  cheek,  how 
deathly;  his  eye  wild  with  the  fitful  fire  of  fever.  One  friend  stands 
beside  him,  nay,  I should  say  kneels,  for  he  is  pillowing  that  poor 
head  upon  his  breast. 

“ Genius  in  ruins.  Oh ! the  high,  holy  looking  brow ! Why 
should  death  mark  it,  and  he  so  young?  Look  how  he  throws  the 
damp  curls!  see  him  clasp  his  hands!  hear  his  thrilling  shrieks 
for  life ! mark  how  he  clutches  at  the  form  of  his  companion,  im- 
ploring to  be  saved.  Oh!  hear  him  call  piteously  his  father’s 
name;  see  him  twine  his  fingers  together  as  he  shrieks  for  his  sis- 
ter— his  only  sister — the  twin  of  his  soul — weeping  for  him  in  his 
distant  native  land. 

“See!”  she  exclaimed,  while  the  bridal  party  shrank  back,  the 
untasted  wine  trembling  in  their  faltering  grasp,  and  the  Judge 
fell,  overpowered,  upon  ^his  seat;  “see!  his  arms  are  lifted  to 
heaven;  he  prays,  how  wildly,  for  mercy!  hot  fever  rushes  through 
his  veins.  The  friend  beside  him  is  weeping;  awe-stricken,  the 
dark  men  move  silently,  and  leave  the  living  and  dying  together.” 

There  was  a hush  in  that  princely  parlor,  broken  only  by  what 
seemed  a smothered  sob,  from  some  manly  bosom.  The  bride 
stood  yet  upright,  with  quivering  lip,  and  tears  stealing  to  the  out- 
ward edge  of  her  lashes.  Her  beautiful  arm  had  lost  its  tension, 
and  the  glass,  with  its  little,  troubled  red  waves,  came  slowly  to- 
ward the  range  of  her  vision.  She  spoke  again;  every  lip  was 
mute.  Her  voice  was  low,  faint,  yet  awfully  distinct : she  still  fixed 
her  sorrowful  glance  upon  the  wine  cup. 

“ It  is  evening  now;  the  great  white  moon  is  coming  up,  and 
her  beams  lay  gently  on  his  forehead.  He  moves  not;  his  eyes  are 
set  in  their  sockets;  dim  are  their  piercing  glances;  in  vain  his 
friend  whispers  the  name  of  father  and  sister — death  is  there. 


272 


TEEASUEES  FEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


Death ! and  no  soft  hand,  no  gentle  voice  to  bless  and  soothe  him. 
His  head  sinks  back!  one  convulsive  shudder!  he  is  dead!” 

A groan  ran  through  the  assembly,  so  vivid  was  her  descrip- 
tion, so  unearthly  her  look,  so  inspired  her  manner,  that  what  she 
described  seemed  actually  to  have  taken  place  then  and  there. 
They  noticed, also,  that  the  bridegroom  hid  his  face  in  his  hands 
and  was  weeping. 

“Dead!”  she  repeated  again,  her  lips  quivering  faster  and 
faster,  and  her  voice  more  and  more  broken : “and  there  they  scoop 
him  a grave;  and  there  without  a shroud,  they  lay  him  down  in 
the  damp,  reeking  earth.  The  only  son  of  a proud  father,  the  only 
idolized  brother  of  a fond  sister.  And  he  sleeps  to-day  in  that  dis- 
tant country,  with  no  stone  to  mark  the  spot.  There  he  lies — my 
father’s  son — my  own  twin  brother!  a victim  to  this  deadly  poison. 
Father,”  she  exclaimed,  turning  suddenly,  while  the  tears  rained 
down  her  beautiful  cheeks,  “ father,  shall  I drink  it  now?” 

The  form  of  the  old  Judge  was  convulsed  with  agony.  He 
raised  his  head,  but  in  a smothered  voice  he  faltered — “ No,  no,  my 
child,  in  God’s  name,  no.” 

She  lifted  the  glittering  goblet,  and  letting  it  suddenly  fall  to 
the  floor  it  was  dashed  into  a thousand  pieces.  Many  a tearful  eye 
watched  her  movements,  and  instantaneously  every  wine  glass  was 
transferred  to  the  marble  table  on  which  it  had  been  prepared. 
Then  as  she  looked  at  the  fragments  of  crystal,  she  turned  to  the 
company,  saying,  “ Let  no  friend,  hereafter,  who  loves  me,  tempt 
me  to  peril  my  soul  for  wine.  Not  firmer  the  everlasting  hills 
than  my  resolve,  God  helping  me,  never  to  touch  or  taste  that  ter- 
rible poison.  And  he  to  whom  I have  given  my  hand;  who  watched 
over  my  brother’s  dying  form  in  that  last  solemn  hour,  and  buried 
the  dear  wanderer  there  by  the  river  in  that  land  of  gold,  will,  I 
trust,  sustain  me  in  that  resolve.  Will  you  not,  my  husband?” 

His  glistening  eyes,  his  sad  sweet  smile,  was  her  answer. 

The  Judge  left  the  room,  and  when  an  hour  later  he  returned, 
and  with  a more  subdued  manner  took  part  in  the  entertainment  of 
the  bridal  guests,  no  one  could  fail  to  read  that  he,  too,  had  deter- 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


278 


mined  to  dash  the  enemy  at  once  and  forever  from  his  princely 
rooms. 

Those  who  were  present  at  that  wedding  can  never  forget  the 
impression  so  solemnly  made.  Many  from  that  hour  foreswore  the 
social  glass. 


The  Two  Races  of  Men 

The  human  species,  according  to  the  best  theory  I can  form  of 
it,  is  composed  of  two  distinct  races,  the  men  who  borrow,  and  the 
men  who  lend.  To  these  two  original  diversities  may  be  reduced 
all  those  impertinent  classifications  of  Gothic  and  Celtic  tribes, 
white  men,  black  men,  red  men.  All  the  dwellers  upon  earth, 
“Parthians,  and  Medes,  and  Elamites,”  flock  hither,  and  do  natu- 
rally fall  in  the  one  or  the  other  of  these  primary  distinctions. 
The  infinite  superiority  of  the  former,  which  I choose  to  designate 
as  the  great  race,  is  discernable  in  their  figure,  port,  and  a certain 
instinctive  sovereignty.  The  latter  are  born  degraded. 

“He  shall  serve  his  brethren.”  There  is  something  in  the 
air  of  one  of  this  cast,  lean  and  suspicious ; contrasting  with  the 
open,  trusting,  generous  manners  of  the  other. 

Observe  who  have  been  the  greatest  borrowers  of  all  ages — 
Alcibiades — Falstaff — Sir  Richard  Steele — our  late  incomparable 
Brinsley — what  a family  likeness  in  all  four ! 

What  a careless,  even  deportment  hath  your  borrower!  what 
rosy  gills ! what  a beautiful  reliance  on  Providence  doth  he  mani- 
fest— taking  no  more  thought  than  lilies!  What  contempt  for 
money, — accounting  it  (yours  and  mine,  especially,)  no  better  than 
dross ! What  a liberal  confounding  of  those  pedantic  distinctions  of 
meum  and  tuum ! or  rather,  what  a noble  simplification  of  language 
(beyond  Tooke)  resolving  these  supposed  opposites  into  one  clear, 
intelligible  pronoun  adjective! — What  near  approaches  doth  he 
make  to  the  primitive  community , — to  the  extent  of  one-half  of  the 
principle, at  least. 

18  


274 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


He  is  the  true  taxer  who  “calleth  all  the  world  up  to  be  taxed;” 
and  the  distance  is  as  vast  between  him  and  one  of  us,  as  subsisted 
between  the  Augustan  Majesty  and  the  poorest  obolary  Jew  that 
paid  it  tribute  pittance  at  Jerusalem!  His  exactions,  too,  have 
such  a cheerful,  voluntary  air!  So  far  removed  from  your  sour 
parochial  or  State  gatherers, — those  ink  horn  varlets,  who  carry  their 
want  of  welcome  in  their  faces!  He  cometh  to  you  with  a smile, 
and  troubleth  you  with  no  receipt;  confining  himself  to  no  set  sea- 
son. Every  day  is  his  candlemas,  or  his  Feast  of  Holy  Michael. 
He  applieth  the  lene  tormentum  of  a pleasant  look  to  your  purse, — 
which  to  that  gentle  warmth  expands  her  silken  leaves,  as  naturally 
as  the  cloak  of  the  traveler,  for  which  sun  and  wind  contended ! He 
is  the  true  Propontic  which  never  ebbeth ! The  sea  which  taketh 
handsomely  at  each  man’s  hand.  In  vain  the  victim,  whom  he 
delighteth  to  honor,  struggles  with  destiny;  he  is  in  the  net.  Lend, 
therefore, cheerfully;  0 man  ordained  to  lend — that  thou  lose  not 
in  the  end,  with  thy  worldly  penny,  the  reversion  promised.  Com- 
bine not  preposterously  in  thine  own  person  the  penalties  of  Laza- 
rus and  of  Dives ! but,  when  thou  seest  the  proper  authority  com- 
ing, meet  it  smilingly,  as  it  were  half  way.  Come,  a handsome 
sacrifice!  See  how  fight  he  makes  of  it!  Strain  not  courtesies 
with  a noble  enemy. 

Reflections  like  the  foregoing  were  forced  upon  my  mind  by 
the  death  of  my  old  friend,  Ralph  Bigod,  Esq.,  who  parted  this 
fife  on  Wednesday  evening;  dying,  as  he  had  lived,  without  much 
trouble.  He  boasted  himself  a descendant  from  mighty  ancestors 
of  that  name,  who  heretofore  held  ducal  dignities  in  this  realm. 
In  his  actions  and  sentiments  he  belied  not  the  stock  to  which  he 
pretended.  Early  in  fife  he  found  himself  invested  with  ample 
revenues;  which,  with  that  noble  disinterestedness  which  I have 
noticed  as  inherent  in  men  of  the  yreat  race , he  took  almost  imme- 
diate measures  entirely  to  dissipate  and  bring  to  nothing;  for  there 
is  something  revolting  in  the  idea  of  a king  holding  a private  purse ; 
and  the  thoughts  of  Bigod  were  all  regal.  Thus  furnished  by  the 
very  act  of  disfurnishment ; getting  rid  of  the  cumbersome  luggage 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


276 


of  riches,  more  apt  (as  one  sing)  to  slacken  virtue,  and  abate  her 
edge — than  prompt  her  to  do  aught  may  merit  praise — he  set  forth, 
like  some  Alexander,  upon  his  great  enterprise,  “borrowing  and  to 
borrow!’’ 

In  his  pereigesis,  or  triumphant  progress  throughout  this 
island,  it  has  been  calculated  that  he  laid  a tithe  part  of  the  inhab- 
itants under  contribution.  I reject  this  estimate  as  greatly  exag- 
gerated ; but  having  the  honor  of  accompanying  my  friend  divers 
times,  in  liis  perambulations  about  this  vast  city,  I own  I was 
greatly  struck  at  first  with  the  prodigious  number  of  faces  we  met, 
who  claimed  a sort  of  respectful  acquaintance  with  us.  He  was 
one  day  so  obliging  as  to  explain  the  phenomenon.  It  seems,  these 
were  his  tributaries;  feeders  of  his  exchequer;  gentlemen,  his  good 
friends  (as  he  was  pleased  to  express  himself)  to  whom  he  had  oc- 
casionally been  beholden  for  a loan.  Their  multitudes  did  no  way 
disconcert  him.  He  rather  took  a pride  in  numbering  them;  and? 
with  Comus,  seemed  pleased  to  be  “stocked  with  so  fair  a herd.” 
With  such  sources,  it  was  a wonder  how  he  contrived  to  keep  his 
treasury  always  empty.  He  did  it  by  force  of  an  aphorism,  which 
he  had  often  in  his  mouth,  that  “money  kept  longer  than  three 
days,  stinks.”  So  he  made  use  of  it  while  it  was  fresh.  A good 
part  he  drank  away  (for  he  was  an  excellent  toss-pot) ; some  he 
gave  away,  the  rest  he  threw  away,  literally  tossing  and  hurling  it 
violently  from  him — as  boys  do  burrs,  or  as  if  it  had  been  infec- 
tious,— into  ponds,  or  ditches,  or  deep  holes,  inscrutable  cavities  of 
the  earth ; or  he  would  bury  it  (where  he  would  never  seek  it  again) 
by  a river’s  side  under  some  bank,  which  (he  would  facetiously  ob- 
serve) paid  no  interest — but  out  away  from  him  it  must  go  peremp- 
torily, as  Hagar’s  offspring  into  the  wilderness,  while  it  was  sweet. 
He  never  missed  it.  The  streams  were  perennial  which  fed  his  fisc. 
When  new  supplies  became  necessary,  the  first  person  that  had  the 
felicity  to  fall  in  with  him,  friend  or  stranger,  w^as  sure  to  contrib- 
ute to  the  deficiency.  For  Bigod  had  an  undeniable  way  with  him. 
He  had  a cheerful,  open  exterior,  a quick  jovial  eye,  a bald  forehead, 
just  touched  with  gray  ( cana  jides ). 


176 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


He  anticipated  no  excuse  and  found  none.  And,  waiving  for  a 
while  my  theory  as  to  the  yreat  race , I would  put  it  to  the  most  un- 
theorizing reader,  who  may  at  times  have  disposable  coin  in  his 
pocket,  whether  it  is  not  more  repugnant  to  the  kindliness  of  his 
nature  to  refuse  such  a one  as  I am  describing,  than  to  say  no  to  a 
poor  petitionary  rogue  (your  bastard  borrower,)  who,  by  his  mump- 
ing visnomy,  tells  you  that  he  expects  nothing  better;  and,  there- 
fore, whose  preconceived  notions  and  expectations  you  do  in  reality 
so  much  less  shock  in  the  refusal. 

When  I think  of  this  man ; his  fiery  glow  of  heart,  his  swell 
of  feeling ; how  magnificent,  how  ideal  he  was ; how  great  at  the 
midnight  hour ; and  when  I compare  with  him  the  companions  with 
whom  I have  associated  since,  I grudge  the  saving  of  a few  idle 
ducats,  and  think  that  I am  fallen  into  the  society  of  lenders  and 
little  men. 

To  one  like  Elia,  whose  treasures  are  rather  cased  in  leather 
covers  than  closed  in  iron  coffers,  there  is  a class  of  alienators  more 
formidable  than  that  which  I have  touched  upon ; I mean  your  bor- 
rowers of  books — those  mutilators  of  collections,  spoilers  of  the 
symmetry  of  shelves,  and  creators  of  odd  volumes.  There  is  Com- 
berbatch,  matchless  in  his  depredations ! 

That  foul  gap  in  the  bottom  shelf  facing  you,  like  a great  eye- 
tooth knocked  out — (you  are  now  with  me  in  my  little  back  study 
in  Bloomsbury,  reader!) — with  the  huge  Switzer -like  tomes  on  each 
side  (like  the  Guildhall  giants,  in  their  reformed  posture,  guardant 
of  nothing)  once  held  the  tallest  of  my  folios,  Opera  Bonaventurae, 
choice  and  massy  divinity,  to  which  its  two  supporters  (school  divin- 
ity also,  but  of  a lesser  caliber, — Bellarmine,  and  Holy  Thomas,) — 
showed  but  as  dwarfs, — itself  an  Ascapart! — that  Comberbatch 
abstracted  upon  the  faith  of  a theory  he  holds,  which  is  more  easy, 
I confess,  for  me  to  suffer  by  than  to  refute,  namely,  that  “the  title 
to  property  in  a book  (my  Bonaventure,  for  instance,)  is  in  exact 
ratio  to  the  claimant’s  powers  of  understanding  and  appreciating 
the  same.”  Should  he  go  on  acting  upon  this  theory,  which  of  our 
shelves  is  safe? 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


277 


The  slight  vacuum  in  the  left  hand  case — two  shelves  from  the 
ceiling — scarcely  distinguishable  hut  by  the  quick  eye  of  a loser — 
was  whilom  the  commodious  resting  place  of  Brown  on  Urn  Burial. 
C.  will  hardly  allege  that  he  knows  more  about  that  treatise  than  I 
do,  who  introduced  it  to  him,  and  was  indeed,  the  first  (of  the  mod- 
erns) to  discover  its  beauties — but  so  have  I known  a foolish  lover 
to  praise  his  mistress  in  the  presence  of  a rival  more  qualified  to 
carry  her  off  than  himself.  Just  below,  Dodsley’s  dramas  want 
their  fourth  volume,  where  Vittoria  Corombona  is.  The  remaining 
nine  are  as  distasteful  as  Priam’s  refuse  sons,  when  the  Fates  bor- 
rowed Hector.  Here  stood  the  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  in  sober 
state.  There  loitered  the  Complete  Angler,  quiet  as  in  life,  by 
some  stream  side.  In  yonder  nook,  John  Buncle,  a widower- 
volume,  with  “eyes  closed,”  mourns  his  ravished  mate. 

One  justice  I must  do  my  friend,  that  if  he  sometimes,  like 
the  sea,  sweeps  away  a treasure,  at  another  time,  sea-like,  he  throws 
up  as  rich  an  equivalent  to  match  it.  I have  a small  under-collec- 
tion of  this  nature  (my  friend’s  gatherings  in  his  various  calls), 
picked  up,  he  has  forgotten  at  what  odd  places,  and  deposited  with 
as  little  memory  at  mine.  I take  in  these  orphans,  the  twice  de- 
serted. These  proselytes  of  the  gate  are  welcome  as  the  true  He- 
brews. There  they  stand  in  conjunction,  natives,  and  naturalized. 
The  latter  seem  as  little  disposed  to  inquire  out  their  true  lineage 
as  I am.  I charge  no  warehouse-room  for  these  deodands,  nor 
shall  ever  put  myself  to  the  ungentlemanly  trouble  of  advertising  a 
sale  of  them  to  pay  expenses. 

To  lose  a volume  to  C.  carries  some  sense  and  meaning  in  it. 
You  are  sure  that  he  will  make  one  hearty  meal  on  your  viands,  if 
he  can  give  no  account  of  the  platter  after  it.  But  what  moved 
thee,  wayward,  spiteful  K.,  to  be  so  importune  to  carry  off  with 
thee,  in  spite  of  tears  and  adjurations  to  thee  to  forbear,  the  Letters 
of  that  princely  woman,  the  thrice  noble  Margaret  Newcastle? — 
knowing  at  the  time,  and  knowing  that  I knew  also,  thou  most 
assuredly  wouldst  never  turn  over  one  leaf  of  the  illustrious  folio ; 
what  but  the  mere  spirit  of  contradiction,  and  childish  love  of  get- 


278 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


ting  the  better  of  thy  friend?  Then,  worst  cut  of  all!  to  transport 
it  with  thee  to  the  Gallican  land.  Unworthy  land  to  harbor  such  a 
sweetness.  A virtue  in  which  all  ennobling  thoughts  dwelt. 

Pure  thoughts,  kind  thoughts,  high  thoughts,  her  sex’s  won- 
der ! 

Hadst  thou  not  thy  play-books,  and  books  of  jests  and  fancies, 
about  thee,  to  keep  thee  merry,  even  as  thou  keepest  all  companies 
with  thy  quips  and  mirthful  tales?  Child  of  the  Green-room,  it 
was  unkindly  done  of  thee.  Thy  wife,  too,  that  part  French,  bet- 
ter part  English  woman ! — that  she  could  fix  upon  no  other  treatise 
to  bear  away,  in  kindly  token  of  remembering  us,  than  the  works 
of  Fulke  Greville,  Lord  Brook — of  which  no  Frenchman,  nor 
woman  of  France,  Italy,  or  England,  was  ever  by  nature  consti- 
tuted to  comprehend  a title ! Was  there  not  “ Zimmerman  on  Soli- 
tude?” 

Reader,  if  haply  thou  art  blessed  with  a moderate  collection, 
be  shy  of  showing  it;  or  if  thy  heart  overfloweth  to  lend  them, 
lend  thy  books;  but  let  it  he  to  such  a one  as  S.  T.  C.-  he  will 
return  them  (generally  anticipating  the  time  appointed)  with  usury; 
enriched  with  annotations  tripling  their  value.  I have  had  experi- 
ence. Many  are  these  precious  MSS.  of  his — (in  matter  oftentimes, 
and  almost,  in  quantity , not  unfrequently,  vying  with  the  originals) 
in  no  very  clerkly  hand  legible  in  my  Daniel ; in  old  Burton ; in  Sir 
Thomas  Browne;  and  those  abstruser  cogitations  of  the  Greville, 
now,  alas!  wandering  in  Pagan  lands.  I counsel  thee,  shut  not 
thy  heart,  nor  thy  library,  against  S.  T.  C. 


i 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


279 


Studies. 

Studies  serve  for  delight,  for  ornament,  and  for  ability.  Their 
chief  use  for  delight,  is  in  privateness  and  retiring;  for  ornament,  is 
in  discourse;  and  for  ability,  is  in  the  judgment  and  disposition  of 
business;  for  expert  men  can  execute,  and  perhaps  judge  of,  partic- 
ulars, one  by  one ; but  the  general  councils,  and  the  plots  and  mar- 
shalling of  affairs,  come  best  from  those  that  are  learned.  To 
spend  too  much  time  in  studies,  is  sloth;  to  use  them  too  much  for 
ornament,  is  affectation;  to  make  judgment  wholly  by  their  rules, 
is  the  humor  of  a scholar;  they  perfect  nature,  and  are  perfected 
by  experience — for  natural  abilities  are  like  natural  plants,  that 
need  pruning  by  study;  and  studies  themselves  do  give  forth  direc- 
tions too  much  at  large,  except  they  be  bounded  in  by  experience. 
Crafty  men  contemn  studies,  simple  men  admire  them,  and  wise 
men  use  them;  for  they  teach  not  their  own  use;  but  that  is  a wis- 
dom without  them,  and  above  them,  won  by  observation.  Read 
not  to  contradict  and  confute,  nor  to  believe  and  take  for  granted, 
nor  to  find  talk  and  discourse,  but  to  weigh  and  consider.  Some 
books  are  to  be  tasted,  others  to  be  swallowed,  and  some  few  to  be 
chewed  and  digested ; that  is,  some  books  are  to  be  read  only  in 
parts;  others  to  be  read,  but  not  curiously;  and  some  few  to  be 
read  wholly,  and  with  diligence  and  attention.  Some  books  also 
may  be  read  by  deputy,  and  extracts  made  of  them  by  others ; but 
that  would  be  only  in  the  less  important  arguments,  and  the  meaner 
sort  of  books;  else  distilled  books  are,  like  common  distilled  waters, 
flashy  things.  Reading  maketh  a full  man,  conference  a ready 
man,  and  writing  an  exact  man;  and  therefore  if  a man  write  little, 
he  had  need  have  a great  memory;  if  he  confer  little,  he  had  need 
have  a present  wit;  and  if  he  read  little,  he  had  need  have  much 
cunning  to  seem  to  know  that  he  doth  not. 


280 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


Of  Beauty. 

Virtue  is  like  a rich  stone,  best  plain  set;  and  surely  virtue  is 
best  in  a body  that  is  comely,  though  not  of  delicate  features,  and 
that  hath  rather  dignity  of  presence  than  beauty  of  aspect;  neither 
is  it  always  seen,  that  very  beautiful  persons  are  otherwise  of  great 
virtue ; as  if  nature  were  rather  busy  not  to  err,  than  in  labor  to 
produce  excellency;  and  therefore  they  prove  accomplished,  but  not 
of  great  spirit;  and  study  rather  behavior  than  virtue.  But  this 
holds  not  always;  for  Augustus  Caesar,  Titus  Vespasianus,  Philip  le 
Bel  of  France,  Edward  IV  of  England,  Alcibiades  of  Athens, 
Ismael,  the  sophi  of  Persia,  were  all  high  and  great  spirits,  and 
yet  the  most  beautiful  men  of  their  times.  In  beauty,  that  cf 
favor  is  more  than  that  of  color;  and  that  of  decent  and  gracious 
motion  more  than  that  of  favor.  That  is  the  best  part  of  beauty 
which  a picture  cannot  express ; no,  nor  the  first  sight  of  the  life. 
There  is  no  excellent  beauty  that  hath  not  some  strangeness  in  the 
proportion.  A man  cannot  tell  whether  Appelles  or  Albert  Durer 
were  the  more  trifler;  whereof  one  would  make  a personage  by 
geometrical  proportions;  the  other,  by  taking  the  best  parts  out 
of  divers  faces  to  make  one  excellent.  Such  personages,  I think, 
would  please  nobody  but  the  painter  that  made  them ; not  but  I 
think  a painter  may  make  a better  face  than  ever  was;  but  he 
must  do  it  by  a kind  of  felicity  (as  a musician  that  maketh  an  excel- 
lent air  in  music),  and  not  by  rule. 

A man  shall  see  faces,  that,  if  you  examine  them  part  by  part, 
you  shall  find  never  a good ; and  yet  altogether  do  well.  If  it  be 
true  that  the  principal  part  of  beauty  is  in  decent  motion,  certainly 
it  is  no  marvel  though  persons  in  years  seem  many  times  more 
amiable;  pulchrorum  autumnus  pulcher;  for  no  youth  can  be 
comely  but  by  pardon,  and  considering  the  youth  as  to  make  up  the 
comeliness.  Beauty  is  as  Summer  fruits,  which  are  easy  to  corrupt 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


281 


and  cannot  last;  and,  for  the  most  part,  it  makes  a dissolute  youth, 
and  an  age  a little  out  of  countenance ; but  yet  certainly  again,  if 
it  light  well,  it  maketh  virtues  shine,  and  vices  blush. 


Lily’s  Ride ; or,  A Race  Against  Time. 

The  sketch  which  we  give  below  is  one  of  the  finest  in  our  language.  Lily  had 
been  notified  that  her  father’s  life  was  in  danger.  In  order  to  give  him  warning,  she 
must  be  at  the  station  when  his  train  arrived.  This  would  prevent  his  intended  visit 
to  a friend  in  the  country,  and  probably  save  his  life. 

“William,”  said  Lily,  as  the  stable-boy  appeared,  “ put  my  sad- 
dle on  Young  Lollard,  and  bring  him  round  as  quick  as  possible.” 

“ But,  Miss  Lily,  you  know  dat  hoss — ” the  servant  began  to 
expostulate. 

“ I know  all  about  him,  William.  Don’t  wait  to  talk.  Bring 
him  out.” 

“All  right,  Miss  Lily,”  he  replied  with  a bow  and  a scrape. 
But,  as  he  went  toward  the  stable,  he  soliloquized  angrily:  “ Now, 
what  for  Miss  Lily  want  to  ride  dat  pertikerler  hoss,  you  spose? 
Never  did  afore.  Nobody  but  de  kunnel  ebber  on  his  back,  and  he 
hab  his  hands  full  wid  him  sometimes.  Dese  furrer-bred  hosses 
jes’  de  debbil  anyhow ! Dar’s  dat  Young  Lollard  now,  it’s  jest  ’bout 
all  a man’s  life’s  wuth  ter  rub  him  down  an’  saddle  him.  Why 
can’t  she  take  de  ole  un!  Here  you,  Lollard,  come  outen  dat!” 

He  threw  open  the  door  of  the  log  stable  where  the  horse  had 
his  quarters  as  he  spoke,  and  almost  instantly,  with  a short,  vicious 
whinny,  a powerful,  dark  brown  horse  leaped  into  the  moonlight, 
and  with  ears  laid  back  upon  his  sinuous  neck,  white  teeth  bare, 
and  thin,  blood-red  nostrils  distended,  rushed  toward  the  servant, 
who,  with  a loud,  “Dar  now!  Look  at  him!  Whoa!  See  de 
dam  rascal!”  retreated  quickly  behind  the  door.  The  horse  rushed 
once  or  twice  around  the  little  stable-yard,  and  then  stopped  sud- 


282 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


denly  beside  his  keeper,  and  stretched  out  his  head  for  the  bit,  quiv- 
ering in  every  limb  with  that  excess  of  vitality  which  only  the 
thoroughbred  horse  ever  exhibits.  He  was  anxious  for  the  bit  and 
saddle,  because  they  meant  exercise,  a race,  an  opportunity  to 
show  his  speed,  which  the  thoroughbred  recognizes  as  the  one  great 
end  of  his  existence. 

Before  the  horse  was  saddled,  Lily  had  donned  her  riding 
habit,  put  a revolver  in  her  belt,  as  she  very  frequently  did  when 
riding  alone,  swallowed  a hasty  supper,  scrawled  a short  note  to 
her  mother  on  the  envelope  of  the  letter  she  had  received — which 
she  charged  William  at  once  to  carry  to  her — and  was  ready  to 
start  on  a night-ride  to  Glenville.  She  had  only  been  there  across 
the  country  once;  but  she  thought  she  knew  the  way,  or  at  least 
was  so  familiar  with  the  “lay”  of  the  country  that  she  could  find  it. 

The  brawny  groom  with  difficulty  held  the  restless  horse  by  the 
bit;  but  the  slight  girl,  who  stood  upon  the  block  with  pale  face 
and  set  teeth,  gathered  the  reins  in  her  hand,  leaped  fearlessly  into 
the  saddle,  found  the  stirrup,  and  said,  “Let  him  go!”  without  a 
quiver  in  her  voice.  The  man  loosed  his  hold.  The  horse  stood 
upright,  and  pawed  the  air  for  a moment  with  his  feet,  gave  a few 
mighty  leaps  to  make  sure  of  his  liberty,  and  then,  stretching  out 
his  neck,  bounded  forward  in  a race  which  would  require  all  the 
mettle  of  his  endless  fine  of  noble  sires.  Almost  without 
words,  her  errand  had  become  known  to  the  household  of  servants; 
and  as  she  flew  down  the  road,  her  bright  hair  gleaming  in  the 
moonlight,  old  Maggie,  sobbing  and  tearful,  was  yet  so  impressed 
with  admiration,  that  she  could  only  say:  — 

“ De  Lor’  bress  her!  ’Pears  like  dat  chile  ain’t  ’fear’d  o’ 
noffin !” 

As  she  was  borne  like  an  arrow  down  the  avenue,  and  turned 
into  the  Glenville  road,  Lily  heard  the  whistle  of  the  train  as  it  left 
the  depot  at  Yerdenton,  and  knew  that  upon  her  coolness  and  res- 
olution alone  depended  the  life  of  her  father.  It  was,  perhaps,  well 
for  the  accomplishment  of  her  purpose,  that,  for  some  time  after 
setting  out  on  her  perilous  journey,  Lily  Servosse  had  enough  to  do 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


283 


to  maintain  her  seat  and  guide  and  control  her  horse.  Young 
Lollard,  whom  the  servant  had  so  earnestly  remonstrated  against 
her  taking,  added  to  the  noted  pedigree  of  his  sire  the  special  excel- 
lence of  the  Glencoe  strain  of  his  dam,  from  whom  he  inherited 
also  a darker  coat,  and  that  touch  of  native  savageness  which  char- 
acterizes the  stock  of  Emancipator.  Upon  both  sides  his  blood  was 
as  pure  as  that  of  the  great  kings  of  the  turf,  and  what  we  have 
termed  his  savagery  was  more  excess  of  spirit  than  any  inclination 
to  do  mischief.  It  was  that  uncontrollable  desire  of  the  thorough- 
bred horse  to  be  always  doing  his  best,  which  made  him  restless  of 
the  bit  and  curb,  while  the  native  sagacity  of  his  race  had  led  him 
to  practice  somewhat  on  the  fears  of  his  groom.  With  that  care 
which  only  the  true  lover  of  the  horse  can  appreciate,  Colonel  Ser- 
vosse  had  watched  over  the  growth  and  training  of  Young  Lollard, 
hoping  to  see  him  rival,  if  he  did  not  surpass,  the  excellencies  of  his 
sire.  In  everything  but  temper,  he  had  been  gratified  at  the  result. 
In  build,  power,  speed,  and  endurance,  the  horse  offered  all  that 
the  most  fastidious  could  desire.  In  order  to  prevent  the  one  de- 
fect of  a quick  temper  from  developing  into  a vice,  the  colonel  had 
established  an  inflexible  rule  that  no  one  should  ride  him  but  him- 
self. His  great  interest  in  the  colt  had  led  Lily,  who  inherited  all 
her  father’s  love  for  the  noble  animal,  to  look  very  carefully  dur- 
ing his  enforced  absences  after  the  welfare  of  his  favorite.  Once 
or  twice  she  had  summarily  discharged  grooms  who  were  guilty  of 
disobeying  her  father’s  injunctions,  and  had  always  made  it  a rule 
to  visit  his  stall  every  day;  so  that  although  she  had  never  ridden 
him,  the  horse  was  familiar  with  her  person  and  voice. 

It  was  well  for  her  that  this  was  the  case ; for,  as  she  dashed 
away  with  the  speed  of  the  wind,  she  felt  how  powerless  she  was  to 
restrain  him  by  means  of  the  bit.  Nor  did  she  attempt.  Merely 
feeling  his  mouth,  and  keeping  her  eye  upon  the  road  before  him, 
in  order  that  no  sudden  start  to  right  or  left  should  take  her  by 
surprise,  she  coolly  kept  her  seat,  and  tried  to  soothe  him  by  her 
voice. 

With  head  outstretched  and  sinewy  neck  strained  to  its  utter- 


284 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


most,  he  flew  over  the  ground  in  a wild,  mad  race  with  the  evening 
wind,  as  it  seemed.  Without  jerk  or  strain,  but  easily  and  steadily 
as  the  falcon  flies,  the  high-bred  horse  skimmed  along  the  ground. 
A mile,  two,  three  miles  were  made,  in  time  that  would  have  done 
honor  to  the  staying  quality  of  his  sires,  and  still  his  pace  had 
not  slackened.  He  was  now  nearing  the  river  into  which  fell  the 
creek  that  ran  by  Warrington.  As  he  went  down  the  long  slope 
that  led  to  the  ford,  his  rider  tried  in  vain  to  check  his  speed. 
Pressure  upon  the  hit  but  resulted  in  an  impatient  shaking  of  the 
head,  and  laying  hack  of  the  ears.  He  kept  up  his  magnificent 
stride  until  he  had  reached  the  very  verge  of  the  river.  There  he 
stopped,  threw  up  his  head  in  inquiry,  as  he  gazed  upon  the  fretted 
waters  lighted  up  by  the  full  moon,  glanced  back  at  his  rider,  and 
with  a word  of  encouragement  from  her  marched  proudly  into  the 
waters,  casting  up  a silver  spray  at  each  step.  Lily  did  not  miss 
this  opportunity  to  establish  more  intimate  relations  with  her  steed. 
She  patted  his  neck,  praised  him  lavishly,  and  took  occasion  to  as- 
sume control  of  him  while  he  was  in  the  deepest  part  of  the  chan- 
nel, turning  him  this  way  and  that  much  more  than  was  needful, 
simply  to  accustom  him  to  obey  her  will. 

When  he  came  out  on  the  other  hank,  he  would  have  resumed 
his  gallop  almost  at  once,  hut  she  required  him  to  walk  to  the  top 
of  the  hill.  The  night  was  growing  chilly  by  this  time.  As  the 
wind  struck  her  at  the  hill-top,  she  remembered  that  she  had 
thrown  a hooded  waterproof  about  her  before  starting.  She  stopped 
her  horse,  and  taking  off  her  hat,  gathered  her  long  hair  into  a 
mass,  and  thrust  it  into  the  hood,  which  she  threw  over  her  head 
and  pressed  her  hat  down  on  it;  then  she  gathered  the  reins,  and 
they  went  on  in  that  long,  steady  stride  which  marks  the  high-bred 
horse  when  he  gets  thoroughly  down  to  his  work.  Once  or  twice 
she  drew  rein  to  examine  the  landmarks,  and  determine  which  road 
to  take.  Sometimes  her  way  lay  through  the  forest,  and  she  was 
startled  by  the  cry  of  the  owl;  anon  it  was  through  the  reedy  bot- 
tom land,  and  the  half-wild  hogs,  starting  from  their  lairs,  gave 
her  an  instant’s  fright.  The  moon  cast  strange  shadows  around 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


285 


her,  but  still  she  pushed  on,  with  this  one  only  thought  in  her 
mind,  that  her  father’s  life  was  at  stake,  and  she  alone  could  save 

* * * * * * * 

She  glanced  at  her  watch  as  she  passed  from  under  the  shade 
ot  the  oaks,  and,  as  she  held  the  dial  up  to  the  moonlight,  gave  a 
scream  of  joy.  It  was  just  past  the  stroke  of  nine.  She  had  still 
an  hour,  and  half  the  distance  had  been  accomplished  in  half  that 
time.  She  had  no  fear  of  her  horse.  Pressing  on  now  in  the 
swinging  fox  walk  which  he  took  whenever  the  character  of  the 
road  or  the  mood  of  his  rider  demanded,  there  was  no  sign  of 
weariness.  As  he  threw  his  head  upon  one  side  and  the  other,  as 
if  asking  to  he  allowed  to  press  on,  she  saw  his  dark  eye  gleam 
with  the  fire  of  the  inveterate  racer.  His  thin  nostrils  were  dis- 
tended, hut  his  breath  came  regularly  and  full.  She  had  not  for- 
gotten, even  in  her  haste  and  fright,  the  lessons  her  father  had 
taught;  hut,  as  soon  as  she  could  control  her  horse,  she  had  spared 
him,  and  compelled  him  to  husband  his  strength.  Her  spirits  rose 
at  the  prospect.  She  even  caroled  a hit  of  exultant  song  as  Young 
Lollard  swept  on  through  a forest  of  towering  pines,  with  a white 
sand-cushion  stretched  beneath  his  feet.  The  fragrance  of  the  pines 
came  to  her  nostrils,  and  with  it  the  thought  of  frankincense,  and 
that  brought  up  the  hymns  of  her  childhood.  The  Star  in  the 
East,  the  Babe  of  Bethlehem,  the  Great  Deliverer — all  swept  across 
her  rapt  vision ; and  then  came  the  priceless  promise,  “I  will  not 
leave  thee,  nor  forsake  thee.” 

Still  on  and  on  the  brave  horse  bore  her  with  untiring  limb. 
Half  the  remaining  distance  is  now  consumed,  and  she  comes  to  a 
place  where  the  road  forks,  not  once,  but  into  four  branches.  It  is 
in  the  midst  of  a level,  old  field  covered  with  a thick  growth  of 
scrubby  pines.  Through  the  masses  of  thick  green  are  white 
lanes  which  stretch  away  in  every  direction,  with  no  visible  differ- 
ence save  in  the  density  or  frequency  of  the  shadows  which  fall 
across  them.  She  tries  to  think  which  of  the  many  intersecting 
paths  lead  to  her  destination.  She  tries  this,  and  then  that,  for  a 
few  steps,  consults  the  stars  to  determine  in  what  direction  Glen- 


286 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


ville  lies,  and  has  almost  decided  upon  the  first  to  the  right,  when 
4 she  hears  a sound  which  turns  her  blood  to  ice  in  her  veins.  * * 

Hardly  had  she  placed  herself  in  hiding,  before  the  open  space 
around  the  intersecting  roads  was  alive  with  disguised  horsemen. 
She  could  catch  glimpses  of  their  figures  as  she  gazed  through  the 
clustering  pines.  * * * * (From  a conversation  among  the 

horsemen,  she  learns  which  road  leads  to  Glenville.)  Lily,  with 
her  revolver  ready  cocked  in  her  hand,  turned,  and  cautiously  made 
her  way  to  the  road  which  had  been  indicated  as  the  one  which  led 
to  Glenville.  Just  as  her  horse  stepped  into  the  path,  an  over- 
hanging limb  caught  her  hat,  and  pulled  it  off,  together  with  the 
hood  of  her  waterproof,  so  that  her  hair  fell  down  again  upon  her 
shoulders.  She  hardly  noticed  the  fact  in  her  excitement,  and,  if 
she  had,  could  not  have  stopped  to  repair  the  accident.  She  kept 
her  horse  upon  the  shady  side,  walking  upon  the  grass  as  much  as 
possible  to  prevent  attracting  attention,  watching  on  all  sides  for 
any  scattered  members  of  the  clan.  She  had  proceeded  thus  about 
a hundred  and  fifty  yards,  when  she  came  to  a turn  in  the  road, 
and  saw,  sitting  before  her  in  the  moonlight,  one  of  the  disguised 
horsemen,  evidently  a sentry  who  had  been  stationed  there  to  see 
that  no  one  came  upon  the  camp  unexpectedly.  He  was  facing  the 
other  way,  but  just  at  that  instant  turned,  and,  seeing  her  indis- 
tinctly in  the  shadow,  cried  out  at  once — 

“Who’s  there?  Halt!” 

They  were  not  twenty  yards  apart.  Young  Lollard  was  trem- 
bling with  excitement  under  the  tightly  drawn  rein.  Lily  thought 
of  her  father  half  prayerfully,  half  fiercely,  bowed  close  over  her 
horse’s  neck,  and  braced  herself  in  the  saddle,  with  every  muscle 
as  tense  as  those  of  the  tiger  waiting  for  his  leap.  Almost  before 
the  words  were  out  of  the  sentry’s  mouth,  she  had  given  Young 
Lollard  the  spur,  and  shot  like  an  arrow  into  the  bright  moonlight, 
straight  toward  the  black,  muffled  horseman. 

“My  God!”  he  cried,  amazed  at  the  sudden  apparition. 

She  was  close  upon  him  in  an  instant.  There  was  a shot;  his 
startled  horse  sprang  aside,  and  Lily,  urging  Young  Lollard  to  his 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD.  287 

utmost  speed,  was  flying  down  the  road  toward  Glenville.  She 
heard  an  uproar  behind — shouts,  and  one  or  two  shots.  On,  on. 
she  sped.  She  knew  now  every  foot  of  the  road  beyond.  She 
looked  back,  and  saw  her  pursuers  swarming  out  of  the  wood  into 
the  moonlight.  Just  then  she  was  in  a shadow.  A mile,  two 
miles,  were  passed.  She  drew  in  her  horse  to  listen.  There  was 
the  noise  of  a horse’s  hoofs  coming  down  a hill  she  had  just  de- 
scended, as  her  gallant  steed  bore  her,  almost  with  undiminislied 
stride,  up  the  opposite  slope.  She  laughed,  even  in  her  terrible 
excitement,  at  the  very  thought  that  any  one  should  attempt  to 
overtake  her. 

“They’ll  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow,  quoth  young  Lochinvar,”' 
she  hummed  as  she  patted  Young  Lollard’s  outstretched  neck. 
She  turned  when  they  reached  the  summit,  her  long  hair  streaming 
backward  in  the  moonlight  like  a golden  banner,  and  saw  the  soli- 
tary horseman  on  the  opposite  slope;  then  turned  back,  and  passed 
over  the  hill.  * * * * 

The  train  from  Yenderton  had  reached  and  left  Glenville.  The 
incomers  had  been  divided  between  the  rival  hotels,  the  porters  had 
removed  the  luggage,  and  the  agent  was  just  entering  his  office, 
when  a foam-flecked  horse  with  bloody  nostrils  and  fiery  eyes,  rid- 
den by  a young  girl  with  a white,  set  face,  and  fair,  flowing  hair, 
dashed  up  to  the  station. 

“Judge  Denton!”  the  rider  shrieked.  The  agent  had  but  time 
to  motion  with  his  hand,  and  she  had  swept  on  toward  a carriage 
which  was  being  swiftly  driven  away  from  the  station,  and  which 
was  just  visible  at  the  turn  of  the  village  street. 

“Papa,  Papa!”  shrieked  the  girlish  voice  as  she  swept  on. 

A frightened  face  glanced  backward  from  the  carriage,  and  in 
an  instant  Comfort  Servosse  was  standing  in  the  path  of  the  rush- 
ing steed. 

“Ho,  Lollard!”  he  shouted,  in  a voice  which  rang  over  the 
sleepy  town  like  a trumpet-note. 

The  amazed  horse  veered  quickly  to  one  side,  and  stopped  as 
if  stricken  to  stone,  while  Lily  fell  insensible  into  her  father’s  arms. 


288 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


When  she  recovered,  he  was  bending  over  her  with  a look  in  his 
eyes  which  she  will  never  forget. 


Prosperity  and  Adversity. 

The  virtue  of  prosperity  is  temperance;  the  virtue  of  adver 
sity  is  fortitude.  Prosperity  is  the  blessing  of  the  Old  Testament; 
adversity  is  the  blessing  of  the  New,  which  carrieth  the  greater 
benediction,  and  the  clearer  revelation  of  God’s  favor.  Yet  even 
in  the  Old  Testament,  if  you  listen  to  David’s  harp,  you  shall  hear 
as  many  hearse-like  airs  as  carols;  and  the  pencil  of  the  Holy 
Ghost  has  labored  more  in  describing  the  afflictions  of  Job  than 
the  felicities  of  Solomon.  Prosperity  is  not  without  many  fears 
and  distastes ; and  adversity  is  not  without  comforts  and  hopes. 
We  see  in  needleworks  and  embroideries,  it  is  more  pleasing  to 
have  a lively  work  upon  a sad  and  solemn  ground,  than  to  have  a 
dark  and  melancholy  work  upon  a lightsome  ground;  judge,  there- 
fore, of  the  pleasure  of  the  heart  by  the  pleasure  of  the  eye.  Cer- 
tainly, virtue  is  like  precious  odors,  most  fragrant  where  they  are 
incensed  or  crushed;  for  prosperity  doth  best  discover  vice,  but 
adversity  doth  best  discover  virtue. 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


289 


HORACE  MANN. 


HORACE  MANN  was  born  in  Franklin,  Mass.,  May  4, 
1796,  and  he  died  August  2,  1859.  His  parents  being 
poor,  his  early  life  was  given  to  hard  work.  At  the  age  of 
twenty-one  he  entered  Brown  University.  Having  studied 
law,  he  settled  in  Dedham,  but  soon  moved  to  Boston. 

We  admire  Horace  Mann  chiefly  for  the  part  he  has 
taken  in  the  educational  interests  of  the  United  States.  The 
present  efficiency  of  the  school  system  of  Massachusetts  is 
due  almost  wholly  to  his  work.  In  1837,  he  was  chosen 
secretary  of  the  State  Board  of  Education.  He  continued  in 
this  office  for  twelve  years.  In  1853,  he  became  president 
of  Antioch  College,  at  Yellow  Springs,  Ohio.  His  work  as  a 
teacher  closed  here,  but  his  writing  will  ever  continue  to 
teach  and  to  inspire  those  engaged  in  educational  matters. 

His  political  record  is  important.  In  1836,  he  was 
elected  to  the  Massachusetts  State  Senate,  where  his  promi- 
nence placed  him  at  the  head  of  the  educational  interests 
of  his  State. 

Upon  the  death  of  John  Quincy  Adams,  he  was  chosen 
to  represent  his  district  in  Congress,  a position  he  occupied 
for  six  years.  While  in  Congress  he  took  an  active  part  in 
all  true  reform  measures.  His  remains  rest  in  a burying- 
ground  at  Providence,  R.  I.,  and  his  bronze  statue  stands  in 
the  State  House  yard,  Boston,  opposite  to  that  of  Webster. 


19 


290 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


Children  and  Their  Education. 

The  following  we  take  from  Horace  Mann’s  lecture,  entitled— “What  God  Does, 
and  What  He  Leaves  for  Man  to  do,  in  the  Work  of  Education.”  It  is  one  of  the  finest 
productions  in  print,  and  should  be  read  with  careful  thought. 

The  entire  helplessness  of  children,  for  a long  period  after 
birth,  is  another  circumstance  not  within  our  control,  and  one  de- 
serving of  great  moral  consideration.  In  one  respect,  children  may 
be  said  to  possess  their  greatest  power,  at  this,  the  feeblest  period 
of  their  existence ; — a power  which, — however  paradoxical  it  may 
seem, — originates  in  helplessness,  and  therefore  diminishes  just  in 
proportion  as  they  gain  strength.  It  was  most  beautifully  said  by 
Dr.  Thomas  Brown,  that  after  a child  has  grown  to  manhood,  “he 
cannot,  even  then,  by  the  most  imperious  order,  which  he  addresses 
to  the  most  obsequious  slave,  exercise  an  authority  more  command- 
ing than  that  which,  in  the  very  first  hours  of  his  life,  when  a few 
indistinct  cries  and  tears  were  his  only  language,  he  exercised  irre- 
sistibly over  hearts,  of  the  very  existence  of  which  he  was  igno- 
rant.” It  may  be  added  that,  under  no  terror  of  a despot’s  rage; 
under  no  bribe  of  honors,  or  of  wealth;  under  no  fear  of  torture, 
or  of  death,  have  greater  struggles  been  made,  or  greater  sacrifices 
endured,  than  for  those  helpless  creatures,  who,  for  all  purposes  of 
immediate  availability,  are  so  utterly  worthless.  All,  unless  it  be 
the  lowest  savages,  fly  to  the  succor,  and  melt  at  the  sufferings  of 
infancy.  God  has  so  adapted  their  unconscious  pleadings  to  our 
uncontrollable  impulse,  that  they,  in  their  weakness,  have  the  pre- 
rogative of  command,  and  we,  in  our  strength,  the  instinct  of 
obedience.  It  was  the  highest  wisdom,  then,  not  to  intrust  the  fate 
of  infancy  to  any  volitions  or  notions  of  expediency,  on  our  part; 
but,  at  once,  by  a sovereign  law  of  the  constitution,  to  make  our 
knowledge  and  power  submissive  to  their  inarticulate  commands. 

In  proportion  as  this  power  of  helplessness  wanes,  the  child 
begins  to  excite  our  interest  and  sympathy,  by  a thousand  personal 


TREASURES  from  the  prose  world. 


291 


attractions  and  forms  of  loveliness.  The  sweetness  of  lips  that 
never  told  a lie ; the  smile  that  celebrates  the  first-born  emotions  of 
love ; the  intense  gaze  at  bright  colors  and  striking  forms,  gather- 
ing together  the  elements  from  whose  full  splendor  ar\d  gorgeous- 
ness Raphael  painted  and  Homer  wrote;  the  plastic  imagination, 
fusing  the  solid  substances  of  the  earth,  to  be  re-cast  into  shapes 
of  beauty; — what  Rothschild,  what  Croesus  has  wealth  that  can 
purchase  these ! 

How  cheap  and  how  beautiful,  too,  are  the  joys  of  childhood! 
Paley,  in  speaking  of  the  evidences  of  the  goodness  of  God,  says 
there  is  always  some  “bright  spot  in  the  prospect;” — some  “single 
example,”  “by  which  each  man  finds  himself  more  convinced  than 
by  all  others  put  together.  I seem,  for  my  own  part,”  he  adds,  “to 
see  the  benevolence  of  th<s  Deity  more  clearly  in  the  pleasure  of 
young  children,  than  many  things  in  the  world.  The  pleasures  of 
grown  persons  may  be  reckoned  partly  of  their  own  procuring, 
especially  if  there  has  been  any  industry,  or  contrivance,  or  pursuit 
to  come  at  them;  or,  if  they  are  founded,  like  music,  painting,  etc., 
upon  any  qualifications  of  their  own  acquiring.  But  the  pleasures 
of  a healthy  infant  are  so  manifestly  provided  for  it  by  another, 
and  the  benevolence  of  the  provision  is  so  unquestionable,  that 
every  child  I see  at  its  sport,  affords  to  my  mind  a kind  of  sensi- 
ble evidence  of  the  finger  of  God,  and  of  the  disposition  which 
directs  it.”  At  the  age  of  two  or  three  years,  before  a child  has 
ever  seen  a jest-book,  whence  comes  his  glad  and  gladdening  laugh- 
ter,— at  once  costless  and  priceless?  Whence  comes  that  flow  of 
joy,  that  gurgles  and  gushes  up  from  his  heart,  like  water  flung 
from  a spouting  spring?  That  bright-haired  boy,  how  came  he  as 
full  of  music  and  poetry  as  a singing-book?  Who  imprisoned  a 
dancing- school  in  each  of  his  toes,  which  sends  him  from  the  earth 
with  bounding  and  rebounded  step?  What  an  iEolian  harp  the 
wind  finds  in  him!  Nor  music  alone  does  it  awaken  in  his  bosom; 
for,  let  hut  its  feathery  touch  play  upon  his  locks,  or  fan  his  cheek  ? 
and  gravitation  lets  go  of  him, — he  floats  and  sails  away,  as  though 
his  body  were  a feather  and  his  soul  the  zephyr  that  played  with  it- 


292 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


Indeed,  half  his  discords  come,  because  the  winds,  the  buds,  the 
flowers,  the  light, — so  many  fingers  of  the  hand  of  nature, — are 
all  striving  to  play  different  tunes  upon  him  at  the  same  time. 
These  delights  are  born  of  the  exquisite  workmanship  of  the  Crea- 
tor, before  the  ignorance  and  wickedness  of  men  have  had  time  to 
mar  it; — and  they  flow  out  spontaneously  and  unconsciously,  like  a 
bird’s  song,  or  a flower’s  beauty. 

Even  to  those  who  have  no  children  of  their  own, — unless  they 
are,  as  the  apostle  expresses  it,  “without  natural  affection,” — even  to 
those,  the  wonderful  growth  of  a child  in  knowledge,  in  power,  in 
affection,  makes  all  other  wonders  tame.  Who  ever  saw  a wretch 
so  heathenish,  so  dead,  that  the  merry  song  or  shout  of  a group  of 
gleeful  children  did  not  galvanize  the  misanthrope  into  an  excla- 
mation of  joy?  What  orator  or  poet  has  eloquence  that  enters  the 
soul  with  such  quick  and  subtle  electricity,  as  a child’s  tear  of  pity 
for  suffering,  or  his  frown  of  indignation  at  wrong?  A child  is  so 
nucli  more  than  a miracle  that  its  growth  and  future  blessedness 
sre  the  only  things  worth  working  miracles  for.  God  did  not  make 
the  child  for  the  sake  of  the  earth,  nor  for  the  sake  of  the  sun,  as 
a footstool  and  a lamp,  to  sustain  his  steps  and  to  enlighten  his  path, 
during  a few  only  of  the  earliest  years  of  his  immortal  existence. 

You  perceive,  my  friends,  that  in  speaking  of  the  loveliness  of 
children,  and  their  power  to  captivate  and  subdue  all  hearts  to  a 
willing  bondage,  I have  used  none  but  masculine  pronouns, — refer- 
ring only  to  the  stronger  and  hardier  sex;  for  by  what  glow  and 
melody  of  speech  can  I sketch  the  vision  of  a young  and  beautiful 
daughter,  with  all  her  bewildering  enchantments?  By  what  cun- 
ning art  can  the  coarse  material  of  words  be  refined  and  subtilized 
into  color  and  motion  and  music,  till  they  shall  paint  the  bloom 
of  health,  “celestial,  rosy  red;”  till  they  shall  trace  those  motions 
that  have  the  grace  and  the  freedom  of  flame,  and  echo  the  sweet 
and  affectionate  tones  of  a spirit  yet  warm  from  the  hand  that 
created  it?  What  less  than  a divine  power  could  have  strung  the 
living  chords  of  her  voice  to  pour  out  unbidden  and  exulting  har- 
monies ? What  fount  of  sacred  flame  kindles  and  feeds  the  light 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


293 


that  gleams  from  the  pure  depths  of  her  eye,  and  flushes  her  cheek 
with  the  hues  of  a perpetual  morning,  and  shoots  auroras  from  her 
beaming  forehead?  0,  profane  not  this  last  miracle  of  heavenly 
workmanship  with  sight  or  sound  of  earthly  impurity ! Keep  vestal 
vigils  around  her  inborn  modesty;  and  let  the  quickest  lightnings 
blast  her  tempter.  She  is  Nature’s  mosaic  of  charms.  Looked 
upon  as  we  look  upon  an  object  in  natural  hhtory, — upon  a gazelle 
or  a hyacinth, — she  is  a magnet  to  draw  pain  out  of  a wounded 
breast.  While  we  gaze  upon  her,  and  press  her  in  ecstacy  to  our 
bosom,  we  almost  tremble,  lest  suddenly  she  should  unfurl  a wing 
and  soar  to  some  better  world. 

But,  my  friend,  with  what  emotions  ought  we  tremble,  when 
our  thoughts  pass  from  the  present  to  the  future, — when  we  ponder 
on  the  possibilities  of  evil  as  well  as  of  good,  which  now,  all  uncon- 
sciously to  herself,  lie  hidden  in  her  spirit’s  coming  history, — now 
hidden,  but  to  be  revealed  soon  as  her  tiny  form  shall  have  ex- 
panded to  the  stature,  and  her  spirit  to  the  power,  of  womanhood? 
When  we  reflect,  on  the  one  hand,  that  this  object,  almost  of  our 
idolatry,  may  go  through  life  solacing  distress,  ministering  to  want, 
redeeming  from  guilt,  making  vice  mourn  the  blessedness  it  has 
lost  because  it  was  not  virtue ; and,  as  she  walks,  holy  and  immac- 
ulate before  men,  some  aerial  anthem  shall  seem  to  be  forever 
hymning  peaceful  benedictions  around  her;  or,  on  the  other  hand, 
that,  from  the  dark  fountains  of  a corrupted  heart,  she  shall  send 
forth  a secret,  subtle  poison,  compared  with  which  all  earthly  ven- 
oms are  healthful; — when  we  reflect  that,  so  soon,  she  may  become 
one  or  the  other  of  all  this,  the  pen  falls,  the  tongue  falters  and 
fails,  while  the  hopeful,  fearful  heart  rushes  from  thanksgiving 
to  prayer  and  from  prayer  to  thanksgiving. 

But  the  most  striking  and  wonderful  provision  which  is  made, 
in  the  accustomed  course  of  nature  and  providence,  for  the  welfare 
of  children,  remains  to  be  mentioned. 

Keflect,  for  a moment,  my  friends,  how  it  has  come  to  pass, 
that  the  successive  generations  of  children,  from  Adam  to  our- 
selves,— each  one  of  which  was  wholly  incapable  of  providing  for 


294 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


itself  for  a single  day — how  has  it  come  to  pass,  that  these  suc- 
cessive generations  have  been  regularly  sustained  and  continued  to 
the  present  day,  without  intermission  or  failure?  The  Creator  did 
not  leave  these  ever-returning  exigencies  without  adequate  provision ; 
— for  how  universal  and  how  strong  is  the  love  of  offspring  in  the 
parental  breast!  This  love  is  the  grand  resource, — the  complement 
of  all  other  forces.  We  are  accustomed  to  call  the  right  of  self- 
preservation  the  first  law  of  nature ; yet  how  this  love  of  offspring 
overrules  and  spurns  it.  To  rescue  her  child,  the  mother  breaks 
through  a wall  of  fire,  o*  plunges  into  the  fathomless  flood ; — or,  if 
it  must  he  consumed  in  the  flames,  or  lie  down  in  the  deep,  she 
clasps  it  to  her  bosom  and  perishes  with  it.  This  maternal  impulse 
does  not  so  much  subjugate  self,  as  forget  that  there  is  any  such 
thing  as  self;  and  were  the  mother  possessed  of  a thousand 
lives,  for  the  welfare  of  her  offspring  she  would  squander 
them  all.  Mourning,  disconsolate  mothers,  bewailing  lost  chil- 
dren! Behold  the  vast  procession,  which  reaches  from  the  ear- 
liest periods  of  the  race  to  those  who  now  stand  bending  and  weep- 
ing over  the  diminutive  graves  which  swallow  up  their  hopes ; and 
what  a mighty  attestation  do  they  give  to  the  strength  of  that 
instinct  which  God  has  implanted  in  the  maternal  breast.  Nor  is 
it  in  the  human  race  only  that  this  love  of  offspring  bears  sway. 
All  the  higher  orders  of  animated  nature  are  subjected  to  its  con- 
trol. It  inspires  the  most  timid  races  of  the  brute  creation  with 
boldness,  and  melts  the  most  ferocious  of  them  into  love.  To  ex- 
press its  strength  and  watchfulness,  the  hare  is  said  to  sleep  with 
ever-open  eye  on  the  form  where  her  young  repose;  and  the  pelican 
to  tear  open  her  breast  with  her  own  beak,  and  pour  out  her  life- 
blood to  feed  her  nestlings.  The  famishing  eagle  grasps  her  prey 
in  her  talons  and  carries  it  to  her  lofty  nest;  and  though  she 
screams  with  hunger,  yet  she  will  not  taste  it  until  her  young  are 
satisfied ; and  the  gaunt  lioness  bears  the  spoils  of  the  forest  to  her 
cavern,  nor  quenches  the  fire  of  her  own  parched  lips  until  her 
whelps  have  feasted.  And  thus,  from  the  parent  stock, — from  the 
Adam  and  Eve,  whether  of  animals  or  of  men,  who  came  into  life 


TEEASUEES  FEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


295 


full-formed  from  the  hand  of  their  Creator, — down  through  all  suc- 
cessive generations,  to  the  present  dwellers  upon  earth,  has  this 
invisible  but  mighty  instinct  of  the  parent’s  heart  brooded  and 
held  its  zealous  watch  over  their  young,  nurturing  their  weakness 
and  instructing  their  ignorance,  until  the  day  of  their  maturity, 
when  it  became  their  turn  to  re-affirm  this  great  law  of  nature 
toward  their  offspring. 

This,  my  friend,  is  not  sentimentality.  It  is  the  contempla- 
tion of  one  of  the  divinest  features  in  the  economy  of  Providence. 
It  was  for  the  wisest  ends  that  the  Creator  ordained,  that  as  the 
offspring  of  each  “after  its  kind”  should  be  brought  into  life, — 
then,  in  that  self-same  hour,  without  volition  or  forethought  on 
their  part, — there  should  flame  up  in  the  breast  of  the  parent,  as 
from  the  innermost  recesses  of  nature,  a new  and  overmastering 
impulse, — an  impulse  which  enters  the  soul  like  a strong  invader, 
conquering,  revolutionizing,  transforming  old  pains  into  pleasures 
and  old  pleasures  into  pains,  until  its  great  mission  should  be  accom- 
plished. On  this  link  the  very  existence  of  the  races  was  sus- 
pended. Hence  Divine  foreknowledge  made  it  strong  enough  to 
sustain  them  all ; — for,  in  vain  would  the  fountain  of  life  have  been 
opened  in  the  maternal  breast,  if  a deeper  fountain  of  love  had  not 
been  opened  in  her  heart. 

Would  you  more  adequately  conceive  what  an  insupportable 
wretchedness  and  torment  the  rearing  of  children  would  be,  if, 
instead  of  being  rendered  delightful  by  these  endearments  of  pa- 
rental love,  it  had  been  merely  commanded  by  law,  and  enforced  by 
pains  and  penalties, — would  you,  I say,  more  fully  conceive  this 
difference, — contrast  the  feelings  of  a slave-breeder  (a  wretch 
abhorred  by  God  and  man), — contrast,  I say,  the  feelings  of  a 
slave-breeder  who  raises  children  for  the  market,  with  the 
feelings  of  the  slave-mother,  in  whose  person  this  sacred  law 
of  parental  love  is  outraged.  If  one  of  these  doomed 
children,  from  what  cause  soever,  becomes  puny  and  sickly, 
and  gives  good  promise  of  defeating  the  cupidity  that  called  it 
into  life,  with  what  bitter  emotions  does  the  master  behold 


296 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


it!  He  thinks  of  investments  sunk,  of  unmerchantable  stock  on 
hand,  of  the  profit  and  loss  account;  and  perhaps  he  is  secretly 
meditating  schemes  for  preventing  further  expenditures  by  bringing 
the  hopeless  concern  to  a violent  close.  But  what  an  inexpressible 
joy  does  the  abused  mother  find  in  watching  over  and  caressing  it, 
and  cheating  the  hostile  hours; — and  (for  such  is  the  impartiality 
of  nature)  if  she  can  beguile  it  of  one  note  of  gladness  from  its 
sorrow- stricken  frame,  her  dusky  bosom  thrills  with  as  keen  a rapt- 
ure as  ever  dilated  the  breast  of  a royal  mother,  when,  beneath  a 
canopy  and  within  curtains  of  silk  and  gold,  she  nursed  the  heir  of 
a hundred  kings. 

In  civilized  and  Christianized  man,  this  natural  instinct  is  ex- 
alted into  a holy  sentiment.  At  first,  it  is  true,  there  springs  up 
this  blind  passion  of  parental  love,  yearning  for  the  good  of  the 
child,  delighted  by  its  pleasures,  tortured  by  its  pains.  But  this 
vehement  impulse,  strong  as  it  is,  is  not  left  to  do  its  work  alone. 
It  summons  and  supplicates  all  the  nobler  faculties  of  the  soul  to 
become  its  counselors  and  allies.  It  invokes  the  aid  of  conscience, 
and  conscience  urges  to  do  all  and  suffer  all,  for  the  child’s  welfare. 
For  every  default,  conscience  expostulates,  rebukes,  mourns,  threat- 
ens, chastises.  That  is  selfishness,  and  not  conscience,  in  the 
parent,  which  says  to  the  child,  “You  owe  your  being  and  your 
capacities  to  me.”  Conscience  makes  the  parent  say,  “I  owe  my 
being  and  my  capacities  to  you.  It  is  I who  have  struck  out  a 
spark  which  is  to  burn  with  celestial  effulgence,  or  glare  with  bale- 
ful fires.  It  is  I,  who  have  worked  out  of  nothingness,  unknown 
and  incalculable  capacities  of  happiness  and  of  misery;  and  all 
that  can  be  done  by  mortal  means  is  mine  to  do.” 

Nor  does  this  love  of  offspring  stop  with  conscience.  It  enlists, 
in  its  behalf,  the  general  feeling  of  benevolence, — benevolence,  that 
godlike  sentiment  which  rejoices  in  the  joys  and  suffers  in  the  suf- 
ferings of  others.  The  soul  of  the  truly  benevolent  man  does  not 
seem  to  reside  much  in  its  own  body.  Its  life,  to  a great  extent,  is 
the  mere  reflex  of  the  lives  of  others.  It  migrates  into  their 
bodies,  and,  identifying  its  existence  with  their  existence,  finds  its 


TEEASUEES  FEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


297 

own  happiness  in  increasing  and  prolonging  their  pleasures,  in 
extinguishing  or  solacing  their  pains.  And  of  all  places  into  which 
the  whole  heart  of  benevolence  ever  migrates,  it  is  in  the  child 
where  it  finds  the  readiest  welcome,  and  where  it  loves  best  to  pro- 
long  its  residence. 

So  the  voice  of  another  sentiment, — a sentiment  whose  com- 
mands are  more  authoritative  than  those  of  any  other  which  ever 
startles  the  slumbering  faculties  from  their  guilty  repose, — I mean 
the  religious  sentiment,  the  sense  of  duty  to  God, — this,  too,  corned 
in  aid  of  the  parental  affection ; and  it  appeals  to  the  whole  nature, 
in  language  awful  as  that  which  made  the  camp  of  the  Israelites 
tremble,  at  the  foot  of  Sinai.  The  sense  of  duty  to  God  compel? 
the  parent  to  contemplate  the  child  in  his  moral  and  religious  rela- 
tions.  It  says,  “However  different  you  may  now  be  from  your 
child, — you  strong,  and  he  weak;  you  learned,  and  he  ignorant; 
your  mind  capacious  of  the  mighty  events  of  the  past  and  the 
future,  and  he  alike  ignorant  of  yesterday  and  to-morrow, — yet  in 
a few  short  years,  all  this  difference  will  be  lost,  and  one  of  the 
greatest  remaining  differences  between  yourself  and  him  will  be 
that  which  your  own  conduct  toward  him  shall  have  caused  or  per- 
mitted. If,  then,  God  is  Truth,  if  God  is  Love,  teach  the  child 
above  all  things  to  seek  for  Truth,  and  to  abound  in  Love.” 

So  much,  then,  my  friends,  is  done  in  the  common  and  estab- 
lished course  of  nature,  for  the  welfare  of  our  children.  Nature 
supplies  a perennial  force,  unexhausted,  inexhaustible,  reappearing 
whenever  and  wherever  the  parental  relation  exists.  We,  then, 
who  are  engaged  in  the  sacred  cause  of  education,  are  entitled  to 
look  upon  all  parents  as  having  given  hostages  to  our  cause;  and, 
just  as  soon  as  we  can  make  them  see  the  true  relation  in  which 
they  and  their  children  stand  to  this  cause,  they  will  become  advo- 
cates for  its  advancement,  more  ardent  and  devoted  than  ourselves. 
We  hold  every  parent  by  a bond  more  strong  and  faithful  than 
promises  or  oaths, — by  a Heaven -established  relationship,  which 
no  power  on  earth  can  dissolve.  Would  parents  furnish  us  with  a 
record  of  their  secret  consciousness,  how  large  a portion  of  those 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


£03 

solemn  thoughts  and  emotions,  which  throng  the  mind  in  tne  sun- 
tude  of  the  night  watches  and  fill  up  their  hours  of  anxious  con- 
templation, would  he  found  to  relate  to  the  welfare  of  their  offspring. 
Doubtless  the  main  part  of  their  most  precious  joys  come  from  the 
present  or  prospective  well-being  of  their  children ; — and  oh ! how 
often  would  they  account  all  gold  as  dross,  and  fame  as  vanity,  and 
life  as  nothing,  could  they  bring  back  the  look  of  the  cradle’s  inno- 
cence upon  the  coffined  reprobate ! 

With  some  parents,  of  course,  these  pleasures  and  pains  con- 
stitute a far  greater  share  of  the  good  or  ill  of  life  than  with  oth- 
ers;— and  with  mothers  generally  far  more  than  with  fathers.  We 
have  the  evidence  of  this  superior  attachment  of  the  mother,  in 
those  supernatural  energies  which  she  will  put  forth  to  rescue  her 
child  from  danger;  we  know  it  by  the  vigils  and  fasting  she  will 
endure  to  save  it  from  the  pangs  of  sickness,  or  to  ward  off  the 
shafts  of  death;  when,  amid  all  the  allurements  of  the  world,  her 
eye  is  fastened  and  her  heart  dwells  upon  one  spot  in  it ; we  know 
it  by  her  agonies,  when,  at  last,  she  consigns  her  child  to  an  early 
grave;  we  know  it  by  the  tear  in  her  eye,  when,  after  the  lapse 
of  years,  some  stranger  repeats,  by  chance,  its  beloved  name; 
and  we  know  it  by  the  crash  and  ruin  of  the  intellect  sometimes 
produced  by  the  blow  of  bereavement; — all  these  are  signatures 
written  by  the  finger  of  God  upon  human  nature  itself,  by  which 
we  know  that  parents  are  constituted  and  predestined  to  be  the 
friends  of  education.  They  will,  they  must,  be  its  friends,  as  soon 
as  increasing  intelligence  shall  have  demonstrated  to  them  the  indis- 
soluble relation  wdiich  exists  between  Education  and  Happiness. 

I have  now  spoken,  my  friends,  of  what  is  done  for  us,  in  the 
accustomed  course  of  nature  and  providence,  as  it  regards  the  well- 
being of  our  children.  But  here  I come  to  the  point  of  divergence. 
Here  I must  speak  of  our  part  of  the  work ; of  those  duties  which 
the  Creator  has  devolved  upon  ourselves.  Here,  therefore,  it 
becomes  my  duty  to  expose  the  greatest  of  all  mistakes,  committed 
in  regard  to  the  greatest  of  all  subjects,  and  followed  by  proportion- 
ate calamities. 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


299 


Two  grand  qualifications  are  equally  necessary  in  the  education 
of  children, — Love  and  Knowledge.  Without  love,  every  child 
would  be  regarded  as  a nuisance,  and  cast  away  as  soon  as  horn. 
Without  knowledge,  love  will  ruin  every  child.  Nature  supplies 
the  love,  hut  she  does  not  supply  the  knowledge.  The  love  is 
spontaneous ; the  knowledge  is  to  be  acquired  by  study  and  toil,  by 
the  most  attentive  observation  and  the  profoundest  reflection. 
Here,  then,  lies  the  fatal  error : — parents  rest  contented  with  the 
feeling  of  love;  they  do  not  devote  themselves  to  the  acquisition  of 
that  knowledge  which  is  necessary  to  guide  it.  Year  after  year, 
thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  indulge  the  delightful  sentiment, 
but  never  spend  an  hour  in  studying  the  conditions  which  are  indis- 
pensable to  its  gratification. 

In  regard  to  the  child’s  physical  condition, — its  growth  and 
health  and  length  of  life — these  depend,  in  no  inconsiderable 
degree,  on  the  health  and  self-treatment  of  the  mother  before  its 
birth.  After  birth,  they  depend  not  only  on  the  vitality  and  tem- 
perature of  the  air  it  breathes,  on  dress  and  diet  and  exercise,  but 
on  certain  proportions  and  relations  which  these  objects  bear  to 
each  other.  Now  the  tenderest  parental  love, — a love  which  burns, 
like  incense  upon  an  altar,  for  an  idolized  child,  for  a quarter 
of  a century,  or  for  half  a century — will  never  teach  the  mother 
that  there  are  different  ingredients  in  the  air  we  breathe,  that  one 
of  them  sustains  life,  that  another  of  them  destroys  life,  that 
every  breath  we  draw  changes  the  life -sustaining  element  into  the 
life-destroying  one;  and  therefore  that  the  air  which  is  to  be 
respired  must  be  perpetually  renewed.  Love  will  never  instruct 
the  mother  what  materials  or  textures  of  clothing  have  the  proper 
conducting  or  non-conducting  qualities  for  different  climates,  or 
for  different  seasons  of  the  year.  Love  is  no  chemist  or  physiolo- 
gist, and  therefore  will  never  impart  to  the  mother  any  knowledge 
of  the  chemical  or  vital  qualities  of  different  kinds  of  food,  of  the 
nature  or  functions  of  the  digestive  organs,  of  the  susceptibilities 
of  the  nervous  system,  nor,  indeed,  of  any  other  of  the  various 
functions  on  which  health  and  life  depend.  Hence,  the  most  affec- 


300 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


tionate  but  ignorant  mother,  during  the  cold  nights  of  Winter,  will 
visit  the  closet-like  bed-chamber  of  her  darling,  calk  up  every  crev- 
ice, cranny,  smother  him  with  as  many  integuments  as  encase  an 
Egyptian  mummy,  close  the  door  of  his  apartment,  and  thus  inflict 
upon  him  a consumption, — born  of  love.  Or  she  will  wrap  nice 
comforters  about  his  neck,  until,  in  come  glow  of  perspiration,  he 
flings  them  off,  and  dies  of  the  croup.  Or  she  will  consult  the  in- 
finite desires  of  a child’s  appetite,  instead  of  the  finite  powers  of 
his  stomach,  and  thus  pamper  him  until  he  languishes  into  a life  of 
suffering  and  imbecility,  or  becomes  stupefied  and  besotted  by  one 
of  sensual  indulgence. 

A mother  has  a first-born  child,  whom  she  dotes  upon  to  dis- 
traction, but,  through  some  fatal  error  in  its  management,  occa- 
sioned by  her  ignorance,  it  dies  in  the  first,  beautiful,  budding 
hour  of  childhood — nipped  like  the  sweet  blossoms  of  Spring  by  an 
untimely  frost.  Another  is  committed  to  her  charge,  and  in  her 
secret  heart  she  says,  “I  will  love  this  better  than  the  first.”  But 
it  is  not  better  love  that  the  child  needs;  it  is  more  knowledge. 

It  is  the  vast  field  of  ignorance  pertaining  to  these  subjects,  in 
which  quackery  thrives  and  fattens.  No  one  who  knows  anything 
of  the  organs  and  functions  of  the  human  system,  and  of  the  prop- 
erties of  those  objects  in  nature  to  which  that  system  is  related, 
can  hear  a quack  descant  upon  the  miraculous  virtues  of  his  nos- 
trums, or  can  read  his  advertisements  in  the  newspapers — where- 
in, fraudulently  toward  man,  and  impiously  toward  God,  he 
promises  to  sell  an  “Elixir  of  Life,”  or  “The  Balm  of  Immortality,” 
or  “Resurrection  Pills” — without  contempt  for  his  ignorance,  or 
detestation  of  his  guilt.  Could  the  quack  administer  his  nostrums 
to  the  great  enemy,  death,  then,  indeed,  we  might  expect  to  live 
forever  * * * * * * * 

If  the  vehement,  but  blind  love  of  offspring,  which  comes  by 
nature,  is  not  enlightened  and  guided  by  knowledge  and  study  and 
reflection,  it  is  sure  to  defeat  its  own  desires.  Hence,  the  frequency 
and  the  significance  of  such  expressions  as  are  used  by  plain,  rus- 
tic people,  of  strong  common  sense:  “There  were  too  many  pea- 


TREASURES  FEOM  THE  PKOSE  WORLD.  301 

cocks  where  that  boy  was  brought  up;”  or,  “The  silly  girl  is  not  to 
blame,  for  she  was  dolled  up,  from  a doll  in  the  cradle  to  a doll  in 
the  parlor.”  All  children  have  foolish  desires,  freaks,  caprices, 
appetites,  which  they  have  no  power  or  skill  to  gratify;  but  the 
foolish  parent  supplies  all  the  needed  skill,  time,  money,  to  gratify 
them;  and  thus  the  greater  talent  and  resource  of  the  parent  foster 
the  propensities  of  the  child  into  excess  and  predominance.  The 
parental  love,  which  was  designed  by  Heaven  to  be  the  guardian 
angel  of  the  child,  is  thus  transformed  into  a cruel  minister  of  evil. 

Think,  my  friends,  for  one  moment,  of  the  marvelous  nature 
with  which  we  have  been  endowed, — of  its  manifold  and  diverse 
capacities,  and  of  their  attributes  of  infinite  expansion  and  dura- 
tion. Then  cast  a rapid  glance  over  this  magnificent  temple  of  the 
universe  into  which  we  have  been  brought.  The  same  Being  cre- 
ated both  by  His  omnipotence,  and  by  His  wisdom.  He  has 
adapted  the  dwelling-place  to  the  dweller.  The  exhaustless  variety 
of  natural  objects  by  which  we  are  surrounded;  the  relations  of  the 
family,  of  society,  and  of  the  race;  the  adorable  perfections  of  the 
Divine  mind, — these  are  means  for  the  development,  and  spheres 
for  the  activity,  and  objects  for  the  aspiration  of  the  immortal  soul. 
For  the  sustentation  of  our  physical  natures  God  has  created  the 
teeming  earth,  and  tenanted  the  field  and  the  forest,  the  ocean  and 
the- air,  with  innumerable  forms  of  life;  and  He  has  said  to  us, 
“have  dominion”  over  them.  For  the  education  of  the  perceptive 
intellect  there  have  been  provided  the  countless  multitude  and 
diversity  of  substances,  forms,  colors,  motions, — from  a drop  of 
water  to  the  ocean;  from  the  tiny  crystal  that  sparkles  upon  the 
shore,  to  the  sun  that  blazes  in  the  heavens,  and  the  sun-strown 
firmanent.  For  the  education  of  the  reflecting  intellect  we  have 
the  infinite  relations  of  discovered  and  undiscovered  sciences, — the 
encyclopaedias  of  matter  and  of  spirit,  of  which  all  the  encyclopaedias 
of  man,  as  yet  extant,  are  but  the  alphabet.  We  have  domestic  sym- 
pathies looking  backward,  around,  and  forward;  and  answering 
to  these,  are  the  ties  of  filial,  conjugal,  and  parental  relations. 
Through  our  inborn  sense  of  melody  and  harmony,  all  joyful  and 


302 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


plaintive  emotions  flow  out  into  spontaneous  music;  and,  not 
friends  and  kindred  only,  but  even  dead  nature  echoes  back  our 
sorrows  and  our  joys.  To  give  a costless  delight  to  our  sense  of 
beauty,  we  have  the  variegated  landscape,  the  rainbow,  the  ever- 
renewing  beauty  of  the  moon,  the  glories  of  the  rising  and  the  set- 
ting sun,  and  the  ineffable  purity  and  splendor  of  that  celestial 
vision  when  the  northern  and  the  southern  auroras  shoot  up  from 
the  horizon,  and  overspread  the  vast  concave  with  their  many-col- 
ored flame,  as  though  it  were  a reflection  caught  from  the  waving 
Danner  of  angels,  when  the  host  of  heaven  rejoices  over  some  sin- 
ner that  has  repented.  And  finally,  for  the  amplest  development, 
for  the  eternal  progress  of  those  attributes  that  are  proper  to  man, 
— for  conscience,  for  the  love  of  truth,  for  that  highest  of  all  emo- 
tions, the  love  and  adoration  of  our  Creator, — Grod,  in  his  unsearch- 
able riches,  has  made  full  provision.  And  here,  on  the  one  hand, 
is  the  subject  of  education, — the  child,  with  its  manifold  and  won- 
derful powers — and,  on  the  other  hand,  this  height  and  depth, 
and  boundlessness  of  natural  and  of  spiritual  instrumentalities  t'' 
build  up  the  nature  of  that  child  into  a capacity  for  the  intellectual 
comprehension  of  the  universe,  and  into  a spiritual  similitude  to 
its  Author.  And  who  are  they  that  lay  their  rash  hands  upon  this 
holy  work?  Where  or  when  have  they  learned,  or  sought  to  learn, 
to  look  at  the  unfolding  powers  of  the  child’s  soul,  and  to  see  what 
it  requires,  and  then  to  run  their  eye  and  hand  over  this  universe 
of  material  and  of  moral  agencies,  and  to  select  and  apply  what- 
ever is  needed,  at  the  time  needed,  and  in  the  measure  needed? 
Surely,  in  no  other  department  of  life  is  knowledge  so  indispen- 
sable; surely,  in  no  other  is  it  so  little  sought  for.  In  no  other 
navigation  is  there  such  danger  of  wreck ; in  no  other  is  there  such 
blind  pilotage.  * * ********* 

You  all  recollect,  my  friends,  that  memorable  fire  which  befell 
the  city  of  New  York,  in  the  year  1835.  It  took  place  in  the  heart  of 
that  great  emporium, — a spot  where  merchants  whose  wealth  was 
like  princes’  had  gathered  their  treasures.  In  but  few  places  or 
the  surface  of  the  globe  was  there  accumulated  such  a mass  oi 


TEEASUEES  FEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


yuy 

riches.  From  each  continent  and  from  all  the  islands  of  the  sea, 
ships  had  brought  thither  their  tributary  offerings,  until  it  seemed 
like  a magazine  of  the  nations, — the  coffer  of  the  world's  wealth. 
In  the  midst  of  these  hoards,  the  fire  broke  out.  It  raged  between 
two  and  three  days.  Above,  the  dome  of  the  sky  was  filled  with 
appalhng  blackness;  below,  the  flames  were  of  an  unapproachable 
intensity  of  light  and  heat ; and  such  were  the  inclemency  of  the 
season  and  the  raging  of  the  elements,  that  all  human  power  and 
human  art  seemed  as  vanity  and  nothing.  Yet,  situated  in  the 
very  midst  of  that  conflagration,  there  was  one  building,  upon 
which  the  storm  of  fire  beat  in  vain.  All  around,  from  elevated 
points  in  the  distance,  from  steeples  and  the  roofs  of  houses,  thou- 
sands of  the  trembling  inhabitants  gazed  upon  the  awful  scene; 
and  thought — as  well  they  might — that  it  was  one  of  universal 
and  undistinguishing  havoc.  But,  as  some  swift  cross-wind  fur- 
rowed athwart  that  sea  of  flame,  or  a broad  blast  beat  down  its 
aspiring  crests,  there,  safe  amidst  ruin,  erect  amongst  the  falling 
walls,  was  seen  that  single  edifice.  And  when,  at  last,  the  ravage 
ceased,  and  men  again  walked  those  streets  in  sorrow,  which  so 
lately  they  had  walked  in  pride,  there  stood  that  solitary  edifice, 
unharmed  amid  surrounding  desolation;  from  the  foundation  to 
the  cope-stone,  unscathed;  and  over  the  treasure  which  had  been 
confided  to  its  keeping,  the  smell  of  fire  had  not  passed.  There  it 
stood,  like  an  honest  man  in  the  streets  of  Sodom.  Now,  why  was 
this?  It  was  constructed  from  the  same  materials,  of  brick  and 
mortar,  of  iron  and  slate,  with  the  thousands  around  it  whose 
substance  was  now  rubbish  and  their  contents  ashes.  Now,  why 
was  this?  It  was  built  by  a workman.  It  was  built  by  a workman. 
The  man  who  erected  that  surviving,  victorious  structure  knew  the 
nature  of  the  materials  he  used;  he  knew  the  element  of  fire;  he 
knew  the  power  of  combustion.  Fidelity  seconded  his  knowledge. 
He  did  not  put  in  stucco  for  granite,  nor  touch- wood  fox-  iron. 
He  was  not  satisfied  with  outside  ornaments,  with  finical  cornices 
and  gingerbread  work;  but  deep  in  all  its  hidden  foundations — in 
the  interior  of  its  walls,  and  in  all  its  secret  joints — where  no 


— . — 

304  TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 

human  eye  should  ever  see  the  compact  masonry — he  consolidated, 
and  cemented,  and  closed  it  in,  until  it  became  impregnable  to  fire 
— insoluble  in  that  volcano.  And  thus,  my  hearers,  must  parents 
become  workmen  m the  education  of  their  children.  They  must 
k.iiow  that,  from  the  very  nature  and  constitution  of  things,  a lofty 
and  enduring  character  cannot  be  formed  by  ignorance  and  chance. 
They  must  know  that  no  skill  or  power  of  man  can  ever  lay  the 
imperishable  foundations  of  virtue,  by  using  the  low  motives  of 

Ifear,  and  the  pride  of  superiority,  and  the  love  of  worldly  applause 
or  of  worldly  wealth,  any  more  than  they  can  rear  a material  edifice, 
storm-proof  and  fire-proof,  from  bamboo  and  cane-brake ! 

Until,  then,  this  subject  of  education  is  far  more  studied  and 
far  better  understood  than  it  has  ever  yet  been,  there  can  be  no 
security  for  the  formation  of  pure  and  noble  minds ; and  though 
the  child  that  is  born  to-day  may  turn  out  an  Abel,  yet  we  have  no 
assurance  that  he  will  not  be  a Cain.  Until  parents  will  leam  to 
train  up  children  in  the  way  they  should  go — until  they  will  learn 
what  that  way  is — the  paths  that  lead  down  to  the  realms  of  de- 
struction must  continue  to  be  thronged;  the  doting  father  shall 
feel  the  pangs  of  a disobedient  and  profligate  son,  and  the  mother 
shall  see  the  beautiful  child  whom  she  folds  to  her  bosom  turn  to 
a coiling  serpent  and  sting  the  breast  upon  which  it  was  cherished. 
Until  the  thousandth  and  the  ten  thousandth  generation  shall  have 
passed  away  the  Deity  may  go  on  doing  his  part  of  the  work,  but 
unless  we  do  our  part  also,  the  work  will  never  be  done — and  until 
it  is  done,  the  river  of  parental  tears  must  continue  to  flow.  Un- 
like Rachael,  parents  shall  weep  for  their  children  because  they  are , 
and  not  because  they  are  not ; nor  shall  they  be  comforted,  until  they 
will  learn  that  God  in  His  infinite  wisdom  has  pervaded  the  uni- 
verse with  immutable  laws — laws  which  may  be  made  productive  of 
the  highest  forms  of  goodness  and  happiness;  and,  in  His  infinite 
mercy,  has  provided  the  means  by  which  those  laws  can  be  discov- 
ered and  obeyed;  but  that  He  has  left  it  to  us  to  learn  and  to  apply 
them,  or  to  suffer  the  unutterable  consequences  of  ignorance.  But 
when  the  immortal  nature  of  the  child  shall  be  brought  within  the 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


305 


action  of  those  influences — each  at  its  appointed  time — which  have 
been  graciously  prepared  for  training  it  up  in  the  way  it  should  go, 
then  may  we  he  sure,  that  God  will  clothe  its  spirit  in  garments  of 
amianthus , that  it  may  not  he  corrupted,  and  of  asbestos , that  it  may 
not  he  consumed,  and  that  it  will  be  able  to  walk  through  the  pools 
of  earthly  pollution,  and  through  the  furnace  of  earthly  temptation, 
and  come  forth  white  as  linen  that  has  been  washed  by  the  fuller 
and  pure  as  the  golden  wedge  of  Ophir  that  has  been  refined  in  th? 
refiner’s  fire. 


Pictures. 


We  don’t  care  whether  pictures  abound  in  a house  from  pride, 
fashion,  or  taste,  so  that  they  he  there.  If  there  is  insensibility 
in  the  proprietor,  he  may  he  the  means  of  gratifying  taste  in  others, 
or  of  awakening  a taste  where  it  was  lying  inactive  before.  It  is 
more  delightful,  of  course,  where  good  taste  prompts  their  supply; 
then  the  pleasure  of  the  exhibitor  is  added  to  the  gazer,  he  he  never 
so  humble,  and  the  two  realize  a better  brotherhood — not  before 
recognized,  perhaps — in  the  broad  avenue  of  natural  taste.  How 
cheerful  the  walls  of  a home  look  with  them ; and,  by  the  rule  of 
opposites,  how  cheerless  without  them!  It  is  a garden  without 
flowers,  a family  without  children.  Let  an  observing  man  enter  a 
house,  and  ten  times  in  ten  he  can  decide  the  character  of  the 
proprietor.  If  he  is  a mean  man,  there  will  he  no  pictures ; if 
rich  and  ostentatious,  they  will  be  garish  and  costly,  brought  from 
over  the  water,  with  expensive  frames,  and  mated  with  mathemat- 
ical exactness;  if  a man  of  taste,  the  quality  is  observable,  and, 
whatever  their  number  or  arrangement,  regard  has  evidently  been 
had  to  the  beauty  of  subject  and  fitness,  with  just  attention  to 
light  and  position.  In  humble  homes,  when  this  taste  exists,  it 
still  reveals  itself,  though  cheaply,  but  the  quick  eye  detects  it  and 


20 


306 


TEEASUEES  FEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


respects  it.  We  have  seen  it  in  a prison,  where  a judicious  placing 
of  a wood-cut  or  a common  lithograph  has  given  almost  cheerful- 
ness to  the  stone  walls  on  which  it  hung. 


Maxims  of  George  Washington. 

The  biographer  of  George  Washington  has  stated  that  when 
but  thirteen  years  old,  Washington  drew  up  for  his  future  conduct 
a series  of  maxims  which  he  called  “Rules  of  Civility  and  Decent 
Behavior  in  Company.”  We  give  these  rules,  as  they  are  worthy 
of  diligent  study  and  cannot  fail  to  both  interest  and  profit  the 
youth  of  our  land : 

Every  action  in  company  ought  to  be  some  sign  of  respect  to 
those  present. 

In  the  presence  of  others  sing  not  to  yourself  with  a humming 
voice,  nor  drum  with  your  fingers  or  feet. 

Speak  not  when  others  speak,  sit  not  when  others  stand,  and 
walk  not  when  others  stop. 

Turn  not  your  back  to  others,  especially  in  speaking;  jog  not 
the  table  or  desk  on  which  another  reads  or  writes ; lean  not  on 
any  one. 

Be  no  flatterer;  neither  play  with  any  one  that  delights  not  to 
be  played  with. 

Read  no  letters,  books,  or  papers  in  company;  but  when  there 
is  a necessity  for  doing  it  you  must  not  leave;  come  not  near  the 
books  or  writings  of  any  one  so  as  to  read  them  unasked;  also 
look  not  nigh  when  another  is  writing  a letter. 

Let  your  countenance  be  pleasant,  but  in  serious  matters  some- 
what grave. 

Show  not  yourself  glad  at  the  misfortune  of  another,  though 
he  were  your  enemy. 

They  that  are  in  dignity  or  office  have  in  all  places  precedency; 
but  whilst  they  are  young  they  ought  to  respect  those  that  are  their 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


307 


equals  in  birth  or  other  qualities,  though  they  have  no  public 
charge.  It  is  good  manners  to  prefer  them  to  whom  we  speak 
before  ourselves,  especially  if  they  be  above  us,  with  whom  in  no 
sort  we  ought  to  begin. 

Let  your  discourse  with  men  of  business  be  short  and  com- 
prehensive. 

In  writing  or  speaking  give  to  every  person  his  due  title  accord- 
ing to  his  degree  and  the  custom  of  the  place. 

Strive  not  with  your  superiors  in  argument,  but  always  sub- 
mit your  judgment  to  others  with  modesty. 

When  a man  does  all  he  can,  though  succeeds  not  well,  blame 
not  him  that  did  it. 

Being  to  advise  or  reprehend  any  one,  consider  whether  it 
ought  to  be  in  public  or  in  private,  presently  or  at  some  other  time, 
also  in  what  terms  to  do  it;  and  in  reproving  show  no  signs  of 
choler,  but  do  it  with  sweetness  and  mildness. 

Mock  not  nor  jest  at  anything  of  importance;  break  no  jests 
that  are  sharp  and  biting;  and  if  you  deliver  anything  witty  or 
pleasant,  abstain  from  laughing  thereat  yourself. 

Wherein  you  reprove  another  be  unblamable  yourself,  for  exam- 
ple is  more  prevalent  than  precept. 

Use  no  reproachful  language  against  any  one,  neither  curses 
nor  revilings. 

Be  not  hasty  to  believe  flying  reports  to  the  disparagement  of 
any  one. 

In  your  apparel  be  modest,  and  endeavor  to  accommodate  nat- 
ure rather  than  procure  admiration.  Keep  to  the  fashion  of  your 
equals,  such  as  are  civil  and  orderly  with  respect  to  time  and  place. 

Play  not  the  peacock,  looking  everywhere  about  you  to  see  if 
you  be  well  decked,  if  your  shoes  fit  well,  if  your  stockings  set 
neatly  and  clothes  handsomely. 

Associate  yourself  with  men  of  good  quality  if  you  esteem 
your  own  reputation,  for  it  is  better  to  be  alone  than  in  bad  com- 
pany. 

Let  your  conversation  be  without  malice  or  envy,  for  it  is  a 


308 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


sign  of  a tractable  and  commendable  nature;  and  in  all  causes  of 
passion  admit  reason  to  govern. 

Be  not  immodest  in  urging  your  friend  to  discover  a secret. 

Utter  not  base  and  frivolous  things  amongst  grown  and  learned 
men,  nor  very  difficult  questions  or  subjects  amongst  the  ignorant, 
nor  things  hard  to  be  believed. 

Speak  not  of  doleful  things  in  time  of  mirth  nor  at  the  table; 
speak  not  of  melancholy  things,  as  death  and  wounds;  and  if 
others  mention  them,  change,  if  you  can,  the  discourse.  Tell  not 
your  dreams  but  to  your  intimate  friends. 

Break  not  a jest  when  none  take  pleasure  in  mirth.  Laugh 
not  aloud,  nor  at  all  without  occasion.  Deride  no  man’s  misfor- 
tunes, though  there  seem  to  be  some  cause. 

Speak  not  injurious  words,  neither  in  jest  nor  earnest.  Scoff 
at  none,  although  they  give  occasion. 

Be  not  forward,  but  friendly  and  courteous;  the  first  to  salute, 
hear  and  answer;  and  be  not  pensive  when  it  is  time  to  converse. 

Detract  not  from  others,  but  neither  be  excessive  in  commend- 
ing. 

Go  not  thither  where  you  know  not  whether  you  shall  be  wel- 
come or  not.  Give  not  advice  without  being  asked;  and  when 
desired,  do  it  briefly. 

If  two  contend  together,  take  not  the  part  of  either  uncon- 
strained, and  be  not  obstinate  in  your  opinion ; in  things  indiffer- 
ent be  of  the  major  side. 

Reprehend  not  the  imperfections  of  others,  for  that  belongs  to 
parents,  masters  and  superiors. 

Gaze  not  on  the  marks  or  blemishes  of  others,  and  ask  not 
how  they  came.  What  you  may  speak  in  secret  to  your  friend 
deliver  not  before  others. 

Speak  not  in  an  unknown  tongue  in  company,  but  in  your  own 
language ; and  that  as  those  of  quality  do,  and  not  as  the  vulgar. 
Sublime  matters  treat  seriously. 

Think  before  you  speak;  pronounce  not  imperfectly,  nor  bring 
out  your  words  too  hastily,  but  orderly  and  distinctly.  When 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


309 


another  speaks,  be  attentive  yourself,  and  disturb  not  the  audience. 
If  any  hesitate  in  bis  words,  help  him  not,  nor  prompt  him  without 
being  desired;  interrupt  him  not,  nor  answer  him  till  bis  speech 
be  ended. 

Treat  with  men  at  fit  times  about  business,  and  whisper  not  in 
the  company  of  others. 

Make  no  comparisons;  and  if  any  of  the  company  be  com- 
mended for  any  brave  act  of  virtue,  commend  not  another  for  the 
same. 

Be  not  apt  to  relate  news  if  you  know  not  the  truth  thereof. 
In  discoursing  of  things  you  have  heard,  name  not  your  author 
always.  A secret  discover  not. 

Be  not  curious  to  know  the  affairs  of  others,  neither  approach 
to  those  that  speak  in  private. 

Undertake  not  what  you  cannot  perform,  but  he  careful  to 
keep  your  promise. 

When  you  deliver  a matter,  do  it  without  passion  and  indiscre- 
tion, however  mean  the  person  may  be  you  do  it  to. 

When  your  superiors  talk  to  anybody,  hear  them;  neither 
speak  nor  laugh. 

In  disputes  he  not  so  desirous  to  overcome  as  not  to  give  lib- 
erty to  each  one  to  deliver  his  opinion,  and  submit  the  judgment 
of  the  major  part,  especially  if  they  are  judges  of  the  dispute. 

Be  not  tedious  in  discourse,  make  not  many  digressions,  nor 
repeat  often  the  same  matter  of  discourse. 

Speak  no  evil  of  the  absent,  for  it  is  unjust. 

Let  your  recreations  be  manful,  net  sinful. 

Labor  to  keep  alive  in  your  breast  that  little  spark  of  celestial 
fire  called  conscience. 

Be  not  angry  at  table,  whatever  happens;  and  if  you  have  rea* 
son  to  be  so  show  it  not;  put  on  a cheerful  countenance,  especially 
if  there  be  strangers,  for  good  humor  makes  one  dish  a feast. 

When  you  speak  of  God  or  his  attributes,  let  it  be  seriously 
in  reverence  and  honor,  and  obey  your  natural  parents. 


310 


TEEASUEES  EEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


The  Little  Woman. 

There  was  a little  woman  on  board,  with  a little  child ; and 
both  little  woman  and  little  child  were  cheerful,  good-looking, 
bright-eyed,  and  fair  to  see.  The  little  woman  had  been  passing  a 
long  time  with  her  sick  mother  in  New  York.  The  child  was  born 
in  her  mother’s  house,  and  she  had  not  seen  her  husband,  to  whom 
she  was  now  returning,  for  twelve  months,  having  left  him  a month 
or  two  after  their  marriage.  Well,  to  be  sure,  there  never  was  a 
little  woman  so  full  of  hope  and  tenderness  and  love  and  anxiety, 
as  this  little  woman  was ; and  all  day  long  she  wondered  whether 
“he”  would  be  at  the  wharf;  and  whether  “he”  had  got  her  letter; 
and  whether,  if  she  sent  the  child  ashore  by  somebody  else,  “he” 
would  know  it,  meeting  it  in  the  street;  which,  seeing  that  he  had 
never  set  eyes  upon  it  in  his  life,  was  not  very  likely  in  the  abstract, 
but  was  probable  enough  to  the  young  mother. 

She  was  such  an  artless  little  creature,  and  was  in  such  a sun- 
ny, beaming,  hopeful  state,  and  let  out  all  the  matter  clinging 
closely  about  her  heart  so  freely,  that  all  the  other  lady  passengers 
entered  into  the  spirit  of  it  as  much  as  she ; and  the  captain,  who 
heard  all  about  it  from  his  wife,  was  wondrous  sly,  I promise  you, 
inquiring,  every  time  we  met  at  table,  as  if  in  forgetfulness,  wheth- 
er she  expected  anybody  to  meet  her  at  St.  Louis,  and  cu\ting 
many  other  dry  jokes  of  that  nature.  There  was  one  little  weazen, 
dried-apple-faced  old  woman,  who  took  occasion  to  doubt  the  con- 
stancy of  husbands,  in  such  circumstances  of  bereavement;  and 
there  was  another  lady,  with  a lap-dog,  old  enough  to  moralize  on 
the  lightness  of  human  affections,  and  yet  not  so  old  that  she  could 
help  nursing  the  child  now  and  then,  or  laughing  with  the  rest, 
when  the  little  woman  called  it  by  its  father’s  name,  and  asked  it 
all  manner  of  fantastic  questions  concerning  him,  in  the  joy  of  her 
heart. 

It  was  something  of  a blow  to  the  little  woman,  that,  when 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


311 


we  were  within  twenty  miles  of  our  destination,  it  became  clearly 
necessary  to  put  this  child  to  bed.  But  she  got  over  it  with  the 
same  good  humor,  tied  a handkerchief  around  her  head,  and  came 
out  into  the  little  gallery  with  the  rest.  Then  such  an  oracle  as 
she  became  in  reference  to  the  localities!  and  such  facetiousness  as 
was  displayed  by  the  married  ladies,  and  such  sympathy  as  was 
shown  by  the  single  ones,  and  such  peals  of  laughter  as  the  little 
woman  herself,  who  would  just  as  soon  have  cried,  greeted  every 
jest  with! 

At  last,  there  were  the  lights  of  St.  Louis,  and  here  was 
the  wharf,  and  those  were  the  steps;  and  the  little  woman,  cover- 
ing her  face  with  her  hands,  and  laughing,  or  seeming  to  laugh, 
more  than  ever,  ran  into  her  own  cabin,  and  shut  herself  up.  I 
have  no  doubt  but,  in  the  charming  inconsistency  of  such  excite- 
ment, she  stopped  her  ears,  lest  she  should  hear  “him”  asking  for 
her;  but  I did  not  see  her  do  it.  Then  a great  crowd  of  people 
rushed  on  board,  though  the  boat  was  not  yet  made  fast,  but  was 
wandering  about  among  the  other  boats,  to  find  a landing-place; 
and  everybody  looked  for  the  husband,  and  nobody  saw  him,  when, 
in  the  midst  of  us  all,  Heaven  knows  how  she  ever  got  there,  there 
was  the  little  woman,  clinging  with  both  arms  tight  around  the 
neck  of  a fine,  good-looking,  sturdy  young  fellow,  and  clapping  her 
little  hands  for  joy  as  she  dragged  him  through  the  small  door  of 
her  small  cabin,  to  look  at  the  child,  as  he  lay  asleep. 


812 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


DONALD  G.  MITCHELL. 


ONALD  GRANT  MITCHELL  was  born  in  April,  1822, 


in  Norwich,  Conn.  In  1841,  at  the  age  of  nineteen, 


he  was  graduated  at  Yale  College.  Having  passed  three 
years  on  a farm,  he  sailed  for  Europe.  In  1846  Mitchell  re- 
turned to  this  country,  and  studied  law  in  New  York.  In 
1847  he  published  Fresh  Gleanings;  or  A New  Sheaf  from  the 
Old  Fields  of  Continental  Europe.  This  work  he  published 
under  the  nom  de  plume  of  “Ik  Marvel,”  a name  which  he 
had  used  in  his  agricultural  articles  in  the  Albany  Cultivator. 
In  1848,  he  went  to  Europe  again,  and  while  there,  wrote 
The  Battle  Summer , which  was  published  in  1849  in  New 
York.  A series  of  sketches  called  The  Lorgnette , satirical  of 
city  life,  appeared  anonymously,  in  1850  ; Dream  Life  in  1851 . 
He  served  as  United  States  consul  at  Venice  from  1853  to 
1855.  Upon  returning  to  this  country,  he  took  up  his  home 
on  his  model  farm,  “Edgewood,”  near  New  Haven,  Conn. 
Besides  the  works  named,  he  published  Fudge  Doings  in 
1854;  My  Farm  of  Edgeivood,  1863;  Wet  Days  at  Edgewood , 
1864;  Seven  Stories,  with  Basement  and  Attic,  1864;  Doctor 
Johns,  a novel,  1866 ; Rural  Studies,  1867 ; and  Pictures  of 
Edgewood,  1869. 

Mr.  Mitchell  has  been  popular  upon  the  lyceum  plat- 
form. 

His  writings  are  very  interesting.  His  style  is  pure  and 
worthy  of  careful  study.  His  Reveries  of  a Bachelor,  from 
which  we  have  taken  “ Letters,”  contains  a “contemplative 
view  of  life,”  in  which  are  many  “ pathetic  scenes  tenderly 
uarrated.  ” 


DONALD  G.  MITCHELL. 


MEASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


313 


Letters. 

Blessed  be  letters !— they  are  the  monitors,  they  are  also  the 
comforters,  and  they  are  the  only  true  heart- talkers.  Your  speech, 
und  their  speeches,  are  conventional;  they  are  molded  by. circum- 
stances; they  are  suggested  by  the  observation,  remark,  and  in- 
fluence of  the  parties  to  whom  the  speaking  is  addressed,  or  by 
Vhom  it  may  be  overheard. 

Your  truest  thought  is  modified  half  through  its  utterance  by 
^ look,  a sign,  a smile,  or  a sneer.  It  is  not  individual;  it  is  not 
integral;  it  is  social  and  mixed,  half  of  you,  and  half  of  others. 
It  bends,  it  sways,  it  multiplies,  it  retires,  and  it  advances,  as  the 
Salk  of  others  presses,  relaxes,  or  quickens.  But  it  is  not  so  with 
letters : — there  you  are,  with  only  the  soulless  pen,  and  the  snow- 
frhite,  virgin  paper.  Your  soul  is  measuring  itself  by  itself,  and 
laying  its  own  sayings : there  are  no  sneers  to  modify  its  utterance, 
-—no  scowl  to  scare, — nothing  is  present  but  you  and  your  thought. 

Utter  it  then  freely- — write  it  down — stamp  it — bum  it  in  the 
ink! — There  it  is,  a true  soul-print! 

Oh,  the  glory,  the  freedom,  the  passion  of  a letter!  It  is  worth 
*ill  the  lip-talk  of  the  world.  Do  you  say,  it  is  studied,  made  up, 
acted,  rehearsed,  contrived,  artistic?  Let  me  see  it  then;  let  me 
vun  it  over;  tell  me  age,  sex,  circumstances,  and  I will  tell  you  if 
it  be  studied  or  real;  if  it  be  the  merest  lip-slang  put  into  words, 
or  heart-talk  blazing  on  the  paper.  I have  a little  paquet,  not  very 
large,  tied  up  with  narrow  crimson  ribbon,  now  soiled  with  frequent 
handling,  which  far  into  some  Winter’s  night  I take  down  from  its 
nook  upon  my  shelf,  and  untie,  and  open,  and  run  over,  with  such 
sorrow  and  such  joy,— such  tears  and  such  smiles,  as  I am  sure 
make  me  for  weeks  after,  a kinder  and  holier  man. 

There  are  in  this  little  paquet,  letters  in  the  familiar  hand  of  a 

mother — what  gentle  admonition — what  tender  affection! God 

have  mercy  on  him  who  outlives  the  tears  that  such  admonitions 


314 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


and  such  affection  call  up  to  the  eye ! There  are  others  in  the 
budget,  in  the  delicate  and  unformed  hand  of  a loved  and  lost  sis- 
ter;— written  when  she  and  you  were  full  of  glee  and  the  best 
mirth  of  youthfulness ; does  it  harm  you  to  recall  that  mirthful- 
ness? or  to  trace  again,  for  the  hundredth  time,  that  scrawling 
postscript  at  the  bottom,  with  its  i’s  so  carefully  dotted  and  its 
gigantic  t’s  so  carefully  crossed,  by  the  childish  hand  of  a little 
brother? 

I have  added  latterly  to  that  paquet  of  letters ; I almost  need  a 
new  and  larger  ribbon;  the  old  one  is  getting  too  short.  Not  a few 
of  these  new  and  cherished  letters,  a former  Eeverie  has  brought 
to  me;  not  letters  of  cold  praise,  saying  it  was  well  done,  artfully 
executed,  prettily  imagined — no  such  thing:  but  letters  of  sym- 
pathy— of  sympathy  which  means  sympathy. 

It  would  be  cold  and  dastardly  work  to  copy  them ; I am  too 
selfish  for  that.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  they,  the  kind  writers, 
have  seen  a heart  in  the  Reverie — have  felt  that  it  was  real,  true. 
They  know  it;  a-  secret  influence  has  told  it.  What  matters  it, 
pray,  if  literally  there  was  no  wife,  and  no  dead  child,  and  no 
coffin,  in  the  house?  Is  not  feeling,  feeling  and  heart?  Are  not 
these  fancies  thronging  on  my  brain,  bringing  tears  to  my  eyes, 
bringing  joy  to  my  soul,  as  living  as  anything  human  can  be 
living?  What  if  they  have  no  material  type — no  objective  form? 
All  that  is  crude, — a mere  reduction  of  ideality  to  sense, — a trans- 
formation of  the  spiritual  to  the  earthly, — a leveling  of  soul  to 
matter. 

Are  we  not  creatures  of  thought  and  passion?  Is  anything  about 
us  more  earnest  than  that  same  thought  and  passion?  Is  there 
anything  more  real, — more  characteristic  of  that  great  and  dim 
destiny  to  which  we  are  born,  and  which  may  be  written  down  in 
that  terrible  word — Forever? 

Let  those  who  will,  then,  sneer  at  what  in  their  wisdom  they 
call  untruth — at  what  is  false,  because  it  has  no  material  presence  : 
this  does  not  create  falsity;  would  to  Heaven  that  it  did! 

And  yet,  if  there  was  actual,  material  truth,  superadded  to 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


315 


Reverie,  would  such  objectors  sympathize  the  more?  No!  a 
thousand  times,  no ; the  heart  that  has  no  sympathy  with  thoughts 
and  feelings  that  scorch  the  soul,  is  dead  also — whatever  its  mock- 
ing tears  and  gestures  may  say — to  a coffin  or  a grave ! 

Let  them  pass,  and  we  will  come  back  to  these  cherished 
letters. 

A mother  who  has  lost  a child,  has,  she  says,  shed  a tear — not 
one,  but  many — over  the  dead  boy’s  coldness.  And  another,  who 
has  not,  but  who  trembles  lest  she  lose,  has  found  the  words  failing 
as  she  reads,  and  a dim,  sorrow-borne  mist,  spreading  over  the 
page. 

Another,  yet  rejoicing  in  all  those  family  ties  that  make  life  a 
charm,  has  listened  nervously  to  careful  reading,  until  the  husband 
is  called  home  and  the  coffin  is  in  the  house — “Stop!”  she  says; 
and  a gush  of  tears  tells  the  rest. 

Yet  the  cold  critic  will  say — “It  was  artfully  done.”  A curse 
on  him! — it  was  not  art:  it  was  nature. 

Another,  a young,  fresh,  healthful  girl-mind,  has  seen  some- 
thing in  the  love-picture — albeit  so  weak — of  truth ; and  has  kindly 
believed  that  it  must  be  earnest.  Aye,  indeed  is  it,  fair  and  gen- 
erous one,  earnest  as  life  and  hope!  Who,  indeed,  with  a heart  at 
all,  that  has  not  yet  slipped  away  irreparably  and  forever  from 
the  shores  of  youth — from  that  fairy  land  which  young  enthusiasm 
creates,  and  over  which  bright  dreams  hover — but  knows  it  to  be 
real?  And  so  such  things  will  be  real,  till  hopes  are  dashed,  and 
Death  is  come."  Another,  a father,  has  laid  down  the  book  in 
tears. — God  bless  them  all!  How  far  better  this,  than  the  cold 
praise  of  newspaper  paragraphs,  or  the  critically  contrived  approval 
of  colder  friends ! 

Let  me  gather  up  these  letters  carefully, — to  be  read  when  the 
heart  is  faint,  and  sick  of  all  that  there  is  unreal  and  selfish  in  the 
world.  Let  me  tie  them  together,  with  a new  and  longer  bit  of 
ribbon — not  by  a love-knot,  that  is  too  hard — but  by  an  easy  slip- 
ping knot,  that  so  I may  get  at  them  the  better.  And  now  they 
are  all  together,  a snug  paquet , and  we  will  label  them,  not  aenti- 


316 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


mentally  (I  pity  the  one  who  thinks  it),  but  earnestly,  and  in  the 
best  meaning  of  the  term — Souvenirs  du  Cceur. 

Thanks  to  my  first  Reverie,  which  has  added  to  such  a treasure! 


Happiness  of  Temper. 

Writers  of  every  age  have  endeavored  to  show  that  pleas- 
ure is  in  us,  and  not  in  the  objects  offered  for  our  amusement.  If 
the  soul  be  happily  disposed,  everything  becomes  capable  of  afford- 
ing entertainment,  and  distress  will  almost  want  a name.  Every 
occurrence  passes  in  review,  like  the  figures  of  a procession ; some 
may  be  awkward,  others  ill-dressed,  but  none  but  a fool  is,  on  that 
account,  enraged  with  the  master  of  ceremonies. 

I remember  to  have  once  seen  a slave,  in  a fortification  in 
Flanders,  who  appeared  no  way  touched  with  his  situation.  He 
was  maimed,  deformed,  and  chained;  obliged  to  toil  from  the  ap- 
pearance of  day  till  night-fall,  and  condemned  to  this  for  life;  yet 
with  all  these  circumstances  of  apparent  wretchedness,  he  sang, 
would  have  danced,  but  that  he  wanted  a leg,  and  appeared  the 
merriest,  happiest  man  of  all  the  garrison.  What  a practical  phi- 
losopher was  here!  A happy  constitution  supplied  philosophy; 
and,  though  seemingly  destitute  of  wisdom,  he  was  really  wise. 
No  reading  or  study  had  contributed  to  disenchant  the  fairy-land 
around  him.  Everything  furnished  him  with  an  opportunity  of 
mirth;  and  though  some  thought  him,  from  his  insensibility,  a fool, 
he  was  such  an  idiot  as  philosophers  should  wish  to  imitate. 

They,  who,  like  that  slave,  can  place  themselves  on  that 
side  of  the  world  in  which  everything  appears  in  a pleasant  light, 
will  find  something  in  every  occurrence  to  excite  their  good  humor. 
The  most  calamitous  events,  either  to  themselves  or  others,  can 
bring  no  new  affliction ; the  world  is  to  them  a theater,  on  which 
only  comedies  are  acted.  All  the  bustle  of  heroism  or  the  aspira- 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


317 


tions  of  ambition  seem  only  to  heighten  the  absurdity  of  the  scene, 
and  make  the  humor  more  poignant.  They  feel,  in  short,  as  littlo 
anguish  at  their  own  distress  or  the  complaints  of  others,  as  the 
undertaker , though  dressed  in  black,  feels  sorrow  at  a funeral. 

Of  all  the  men  I ever  read  of,  the  famous  Cardinal  de  Eetz 
possessed  this  happiness  in  the  highest  degree.  When  fortune 
wore  her  angriest  look,  and  he  fell  into  the  power  of  Cardinal 
Mazarin,  his  most  deadly  enemy  (being  confined  a close  prisoner 
in  the  castle  of  Valenciennes),  he  never  attempted  to  support  his 
distress  by  wisdom  or  philosophy,  for  he  pretended  to  neither.  He 
only  laughed  at  himself  and  his  persecutor,  and  seemed  infinitely 
pleased  at  his  new  situation.  In  this  mansion  of  distress,  though 
denied  all  amusements  and  even  the  conveniences  of  life,  and  en- 
tirely cut  off  from  all  intercourse  with  his  friends,  he  still  retained 
his  good  humor,  laughed  at  the  little  spite  of  his  enemies,  and  car- 
ried the  jest  so  far  as  to  write  the  life  of  his  jailer. 

All  that  the  wisdom  of  the  proud  can  teach  is  to  be  stub- 
born or  sullen  under  misfortunes.  The  Cardinal’s  example  will 
teach  us  to  be  good-humored  in  circumstances  of  the  highest  afflic- 
tion. It  matters  not  whether  our  good  humor  be  construed  by 
others  into  insensibility  or  idiotism ; it  is  happiness  to  ourselves, 
and  none  but  a fool  could  measure  his  satisfaction  by  what  the 
world  thinks  of  it. 

The  happiest  fellow  I ever  knew  was  of  the  number  of  those 
good-natured  creatures  that  are  said  to  do  no  harm  to  any 
body  but  themselves.  Whenever  he  fell  into  any  misery,  he  called 
it  “seeing  life.”  If  his  head  was  broken  by  a chairman,  or  his 
pocket  picked  by  a sharper,  he  comforted  himself  by  imitating  the 
Hibernian  dialect  of  the  one,  or  the  more  fashionable  cant  of  the 
other.  Nothing  came  amiss  to  him.  His  inattention  to  money  mat- 
ters had  concerned  his  father  to  such  a degree,  that  all  intercession 
of  friends  was  fruitless.  The  old  gentleman  was  on  his  death-bed. 
The  whole  family  (and  Dick  among  the  number)  gathered  around 
him. 

“ I leave  my  second  son,  Andrew,”  said  the  expiring  miser, 


318 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


“my  whole  estate ; and  desire  him  to  he  frugal.  ” Andrew,  in  a sorrow- 
ful tone  (as  is  usual  on  such  occasions),  prayed  heaven  to  prolong 
his  life  and  health,  to  enjoy  it  himself.  “I  recommend  Simon,  my 
third  son,  to  the  care  of  his  elder  brother,  and  leave  him,  beside, 
four  thousand  pounds.”  “Ah,  father!”  cried  Simon  (in  great  afflic- 
tion, to  be  sure),  “may  heaven  give  you  life  and  strength  to  enjoy 
it  yourself!”  At  last,  turning  to  ]3oor  Dick:  “As  for  you,  you  have 
always  been  a sad  dog;  you’ll  never  come  to  good,  you’ll  never  be 
rich;  I leave  you  a shilling  to  buy  a halter.”  “Ah,  father!”  cries 
Dick,  without  any  emotion , “ may  heaven  give  you  life  and  health  to 
enjoy  it  yourself  /” 


Our  Old  Grandmother. 

There  is  an  old  kitchen  somewhere  in  the  past,  and  an  old- 
fashioned  fire-place  therein,  with  its  smooth  old  jambs  of  stone; 
smooth  with  many  knives  that  have  been  sharpened  there ; smooth 
with  many  little  fingers  that  have  clung  there.  There  are  andirons 
with  rings  in  the  top,  wherein  many  temples  of  flame  have  been 
builded  with  spires  and  turrets  of  crimson.  There  is  a broad,  worn 
hearth ; broad  enough  for  three  generations  to  cluster  on ; worn  by 
feet  that  have  been  torn  and  bleeding  by  the  way,  or  been  made 
“beautiful,”  and  walked  upon  floors  of  tessellated  gold.  There  are 
tongs  in  the  corner,  wherewith  we  grasped  a coal,  and  “blowing  for 
a little  life,”  lighted  our  first  candle;  there  is  a shovel,  wherewith 
were  drawn  forth  the  glowing  embers  in  which  we  saw  our  first 
fancies  and  dreamed  our  first  dreams;  the  shovel  with  which  we 
stirred  the  logs,  until  the  sparks  rushed  up  the  chimney  as  if  a 
forge  was  in  blast  below,  and  wished  we  had  so  many  lambs,  or  so 
many  marbles,  or  so  many  somethings  that  we  coveted;  and  so  it 
was  that  we  wished  our  first  wishes. 

There  is  a chair,  a low,  rush-bottomed  chair;  there  is  a lit- 
tle wheel  in  the  corner,  a big  wheel  in  the  garret,  a loom  in  the 


TBEASUEES  FEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOBLD. 


819 


chamber.  There  are  chestfuls  of  linen  and  yarn,  and  quilts  of  rare 
patterns  and  samplers  in  frames. 

And  everywhere  and  always,  is  the  dear  old  wrinkled  face  of 
her  whose  firm,  elastic  step  mocks  the  feeble  saunter  of  her  chil- 
dren’s children,  the  old-fashioned  grandmother  of  twenty  years  ago; 
she,  the  very  Providence  of  the  old  homestead;  she,  who  loved  us 
all  and  said  she  wished  there  were  more  of  us  to  love,  and  took  all 
the  school  in  the  hollow  for  grandchildren  besides.  A great  expan- 
sive heart  washers,  beneath  the  woolen  gown,  or  that  more  stately 
bombazine,  or  that  sole  heirloom  of  silken  texture. 

We  can  see  her  to-day, — those  mild,  blue  eyes,  with  more 
of  beauty  in  them  than  time  could  touch,  or  death  could  do  more 
than  hide;  those  eyes  that  held  both  smiles  and  tears  within  the 
faintest  call  of  every  one  of  us,  and  soft  reproof  that  seemed  not 
passion  but  regret.  A white  tress  has  escaped  from  beneath  her 
snowy  cap ; she  lengthened  the  tether  of  a vine  that  was  straying 
over  a window,  as  she  came  in,  and  plucked  a four-leaf  clover  for 
Ellen.  She  sits  down  by  the  little  wheel;  a tress  is  running 
through  her  fingers  from  the  distaff’s  disheveled  head,  when  a small 
voice  cries,  “Grandma,”  from  the  old  red  cradle,  and  “Grandma,” 
Tommy  shouts  from  the  top  of  the  stairs.  Gently  she  lets  go  the 
thread,  for  her  patience  is  almost  as  beautiful  as  her  charity,  and 
she  touches  the  little  red  bark  a moment,  till  the  young  voyager  is 
in  a dream  again,  and  then  directs  Tommy’s  unavailing  attempts 
to  harness  the  cat. 

The  tick  of  the  clock  runs  fast  and  low,  and  she  opens  the 
mysterious  door  and  proceeds  to  wind  it  up.  We  are  all  on  tiptoe, 
and  we  beg,  in  a breath,  to  be  lifted  up,  one  by  one,  and  look  in, 
the  hundredth  time,  upon  the  tin  cases  of  the  weights,  and  the 
poor  lonely  pendulum,  which  goes  to  and  fro  by  its  little  dim  win- 
dows ; and  our  petitions  are  all  granted,  and  we  are  all  lifted  up, 
and  we  all  touch  with  the  finger  the  wonderful  weights,  and  the 
music  of  the  wheel  is  resumed. 

Was  Mary  to  be  married,  or  was  Jane  to  be  wrapped  in  a 
shroud?  So  meekly  did  she  fold  the  white  hands  of  the  one  upon 


320 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


her  still  bosom  that  there  seemed  to  be  a prayer  in  them  there; 
and  so  sweetly  did  she  wreathe  the  white  rose  in  the  hair  of  the 
other  that  one  would  not  have  wondered  had  more  roses  budded 
for  company.  How  she  stood  between  us  and  apprehended  harm ; 
how  the  rudest  of  us  softened  beneath  the  gentle  pressure  of  her 
faded  and  tremulous  hand ! From  her  capacious  pocket,  that  hand 
was  ever  withdrawn  closed,  only  to  be  opened  in  our  own  with  the 
nuts  she  had  gathered,  with  the  cherries  she  had  plucked,  the  little 
egg  she  had  found,  the  “turn-over”  she  had  baked,  the  trinkets  she 
had  purchased  for  us  as  the  products  of  her  spinning,  the  blessings 
she  had  stored  for  us,  the  offspring  of  her  heart. 

What  treasures  of  story  fell  from  those  old  lips  of  good  fair- 
ies and  evil ; of  the  old  times  when  she  was  a girl ; but  we  won- 
der if  ever  she  was  a girl — but  then  she  couldn’t  be  handsomer  or 
dearer — she  was  ever  little.  And  then,  when  we  begged  her  to 
sing:  “Sing  us  one  of  the  old  songs  you  used  to  sing  for  mother, 
grandma.  ” 

“Children,  I can’t  sing,”  she  always  said,  and  mother  used 
always  to  lay  her  knitting  softly  down,  and  the  kitten  stopped  play- 
ing with  the  yarn  on  the  floor,  and  the  clock  ticked  lower  in  the 
corner,  and  the  fire  died  down  to  a glow,  like  an  old  heart  that  is 
neither  chilled  nor  dead,  and  grandmother  sang.  To  be  sure,  it  would 
not  do  for  the  parlor  and  concert-room  nowadays ; but  then  it  was 
the  old  kitchen  and  the  old-fashioned  grandmother,  and  the  old 
ballad,  in  the  dear  old  times,  and  we  can  hardly  see  to  write  for  the 
memory  of  them,  though  it  is  a hand’s  breadth  to  the  sunset. 

Well,  she  sang.  Her  voice  was  feeble  and  wavering,  like 
a fountain  just  ready  to  fail;  but  then  how  sweet-toned  it  was,  and 
it  became  deeper  and  stronger;  but  it  could  net  grow  sweeter. 
What  “joy  of  grief”  it  was  to  sit  there  around  the  fire,  all  of  us, 
excepting  Jane,  and  her  we  thought  we  saw  when  the  door  was 
opened  a moment  by  the  wind;  but  then  we  were  not  afraid,  for 
was  not  it  her  old  smile  she  wore — to  sit  there  around  the  fire,  and 
weep  over  the  woes  of  the  babes  in  the  woods,  who  laid  down  side 
by  side  in  the  great  solemn  shadows ! and  how  strangely  glad  we 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


321 


felt,  when  the  robin  redbreast  covered  them  with  leaves,  and  last 
of  all,  when  the  angel  took  them  out  of  night  into  day  everlasting! 

We  may  think  what  we  will  of  it  now,  but  the  song  and 
the  story,  heard  around  the  kitchen  fire,  have  colored  the  thoughts 
and  the  lives  of  most  of  us,  have  given  the  germs  of  whatever 
poetry  blesses  our  hearts,  whatever  of  memory  blooms  in  our  yes- 
terdays. Attribute  whatever  we  may  to  the  school  and  the  school- 
master, £he  rays  which  make  that  little  day  we  call  life,  radiate 
from  the  God- swept  circle  of  the  hearthstone. 

Then  she  sings  an  old  lullaby,  the  song  of  her  mother; 
her  mother  sang  it  to  her;  but  she  does  not  sing  it  through,  and 
falters  ere  it  is  done.  She  rests  her  head  upon  her  hands,  and  is 
silent  in  the  old  kitchen.  Something  glitters  down  between  her 
fingers  in  the  firelight,  and  it  looks  like  rain  in  the  soft  sunshine. 
The  old  grandmother  is  thinking  when  she  first  heard  the  song, 
and  of  voices  that  sang  it,  when,  a light-haired  and  light-hearted 
girl,  she  hung  round  that  mother’s  chair,  nor  saw  the  shadows  of 
the  years  to  come.  Oh ! the  days  that  are  no  more ! What  words 
unsay,  what  deeds  undo,  to  set  back  just  this  once  the  ancient 
clock  of  time? 

So  our  little  hands  were  forever  clinging  to  her  garments,  and 
staying  her  as  if  from  dying;  for  long  ago  she  had  done  living  for 
herself,  and  lived  alone  in  us. 

How  she  used  to  welcome  us  when  we  were  grown,  and 
came  back  once  more  to  the  homestead!  We  thought  we  were  men 
and  women,  but  we  were  children  there;  the  old-fashioned  grand- 
mother was  blind  in  her  eyes,  but  she  saw  with  her  heart,  as  she 
always  did.  We  threw  out  long  shadows  through  the  open  door, 
and  she  felt  them  as  they  fell  over  her  form,  and  she  looked  dimly 
up,  and  she  said : “Edward  I know,  and  Lucy’s  voice  I can  hear, 

but  whose  is  that  other?  It  must  be  Jane’s,”  for  she  had  almost 
forgotten  the  folded  hands.  “Oh,  no,  not  Jane’s,  for  she — let  me 
see,  she  is  waiting  for  me,  isn’t  she?”  and  the  old  grandmother 
wandered  and  wept. 

“ It  is  another  daughter,  grandmother,  that  Edward  has 
21 


822 


TEEASUEES  FEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


brought,”  says  some  one,  “for  your  blessing.”  “Has  she  blue  eyes, 
my  son?  Put  her  hands  in  mine,  for  she  is  my  late-born,  the 
child  of  my  old  age.  Shall  I sing  you  a song,  children?”  and  she 
is  idly  fumbling  for  a toy,  a welcome  gift  for  the  children  that  have 
come  again. 

One  of  us,  men  as  we  thought  we  were,  is  weeping;  she 
hears  the  half-suppressed  sobs,  and  she  says,  as  she  extends  her 
feeble  hands,  “Here,  my  poor  child,  rest  upon  your  grandmother’s 
shoulder;  she  will  protect  you  from  all  harm.”  “Come,  my  chil- 
dren, sit  around  the  fire  again.  Shall  I sing  you  a song  or  tell  you 
a story?  Stir  the  fire,  for  it  is  cold;  the  nights  are  growing 
colder.  ” 

The  clock  in  the  corner  struck  nine,  the  bedtime  of  those 
old  days.  The  song  of  life  was  indeed  sung,  the  story  told.  It 
was  bedtime  at  last.  Good-night  to  thee,  grandmother.  The  old- 
fashioned  grandmother  is  no  more,  and  we  shall  miss  her  forever. 
The  old  kitchen  wants  a presence  to-day,  and  the  rush-bottomed 
chair  is  tenantless.  But  we  will  set  up  a tablet  in  the  midst  of  the 
heart,  and  write  on  it  only  this: 

SACRED  TO  THE  MEMORY 

OF  THE 

GOOD  OLD-FASHIONED  GRANDMOTHER. 

GOD  BLESS  HER  FOREVER. 


TEEASUEES  FEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


828 


Our  Burdens. 

It  is  a celebrated  thought  of  Socrates,  that  if  all  the  misfor- 
tunes of  mankind  were  cast  into  a public  stock,  in  order  to  be 
equally  distributed  among  the  whole  species,  those  who  now  think 
themselves  the  most  unhappy,  would  prefer  the  share  they  are  al- 
ready possessed  of,  before  that  which  would  fall  to  them  by  such  a 
division.  Horace  has  carried  this  thought  a great  deal  further:  he 
says  that  the  hardships  or  misfortunes  which  we  lie  under,  are 
more  easy  to  us  than  those  of  any  other  person  would  be,  in  case 
we  could  change  conditions  with  him. 

As  I was  ruminating  on  these  two  remarks,  and  seated  in  my 
elbow-chair,  I insensibly  fell  asleep;  when,  on  a sudden,  I thought 
there  was  a proclamation  made  by  Jupiter,  that  every  mortal  should 
bring  in  his  griefs  and  calamities,  and  throw  them  together  in  a 
heap.  There  was  a large  plain  appointed  for  this  purpose.  I took 
my  stand  in  the  center  of  it,  and  saw,  with  a great  deal  of  pleasure, 
the  whole  human  species  marching  one  after  another,  and  throwing 
down  their  several  loads,  which  immediately  grew  up  into  a pro- 
digious mountain,  that  seemed  to  rise  above  the  clouds. 

There  was  a certain  lady  of  a thin,  airy  shape,  who  was  very 
active  in  this  solemnity.  She  carried  a magnifying  glass  in  one 
of  her  hands,  and  was  clothed  in  a loose, flowing  robe,  embroidered 
with  several  figures  of  fiends  and  spectres,  that  discovered  them- 
selves in  a thousand  chimerical  shapes,  as  her  garments  hovered  in 
the  wind.  There  was  something  wild  and  distracted  in  her  looks. 
Her  name  was  Fancy.  She  led  up  every  mortal  to  the  appointed 
place,  after  having  very  officiously  assisted  him  in  making  up  his 
pack,  and  laying  it  upon  his  shoulders.  My  heart  melted  within 
me,  to  see  my  fellow-creatures  groaning  under  their  respective  bur- 
dens, and  to  consider  that  prodigious  bulk  of  human  calamities 
which  lay  before  me. 

There,  were,  however,  several  persons,  who  gave  me  great 


324 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


diversion  upon  this  occasion.  I observed  one  bringing  in  a fardel 
very  carefully  concealed  under  an  old  embroidered  cloak,  which, 
upon  bis  throwing  it  into  the  heap,  I discovered  to  be  poverty. 
Another,  after  a great  deal  of  puffing,  threw  down  his  luggage, 
which,  upon  examining,  I found  to  be  his  wife. 

There  were  multitudes  of  lovers  saddled  with  very  whimsical 
burdens  composed  of  darts  and  flames;  but,  what  was  very  odd, 
though  they  sighed  as  if  their  hearts  would  break  under  these  bun- 
dles of  calamities,  they  could  not  persuade  themselves  to  cast  them 
into  the  heap,  when  they  came  up  to  it;  hut,  after  a few  faint  efforts, 
shook  their  heads,  and  marched  away  as  heavy  laden  as  they  came. 
I saw  multitudes  of  old  women  throw  down  their  wrinkles,  and 
several  young  ones  who  stripped  themselves  of  a tawny  skin. 
There  were  very  great  heaps  of  red  noses,  large  lips,  and  rusty 
teeth.  The  truth  of  it  is,  1 was  surprised  to  see  the  greatest  part 
of  the  mountain  made  up  of  bodily  deformities.  Observing  one 
advancing  toward  the  heap,  with  a larger  cargo  than  ordinary  up- 
on his  back,  I found,  upon  his  near  approach,  that  it  was  only  a nat- 
ural hump,  which  he  disposed  of,  with  great  joy  of  heart,  among 
this  collection  of  human  miseries.  There  were  likewise  distempers 
of  all  sorts;  though  I could  not  but  observe  that  there  were  many 
more  imaginary  than  real.  One  little  packet  I could  not  but  take 
notice  of,  which  was  a complication  of  all  the  diseases  incident  to 
human  nature,  and  was  in  the  hand  of  a great  many  fine  people; 
this  was  called  the  spleen.  But  what  most  of  all  surprised  me,  was 
a remark  I made,  that  there  was  not  a single  vice  or  folly  thrown 
into  the  whole  heap;  at  which  I was  very  much  astonished,  having 
concluded  within  myself,  that  every  one  would  take  this  oppor- 
tunity of  getting  rid  of  his  passions,  prejudices,  and  frailties. 

I took  notice  in  particular  of  a very  profligate  fellow,  who  I 
did  not  question  came  loaded  with  his  crimes ; but  upon  searching 
into  his  bundle,  I found  that,  instead  of  throwing  his  guilt  from 
him,  he  had  only  laid  down  his  memory.  He  was  followed  by 
another  worthless  rogue,  who  flung  away  his  modesty  instead  of 
his  ignorance. 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


325 


When  the  whole  race  of  mankind  had  thus  cast  their  burdens, 
the  phantom  which  had  been  so  busy  on  this  occasion,  seeing  me 
an  idle  spectator  of  what  had  passed,  approached  toward  me.  I 
grew  uneasy  at  her  presence,  when  of  a sudden  she  held  her  mag- 
nifying glass  full  before  my  eyes.  I no  sooner  saw  my  face  in  it, 
but  I was  startled  by  the  shortness  of  it,  which  now  appeared  to 
me  in  its  utmost  aggravation.  The  immoderate  breadth  of  the 
features  made  me  very  much  out  of  humor  with  my  own  counte- 
nance ; upon  which  I threw  it  from  me  like  a mask.  It  happened 
very  luckily,  that  one  who  stood  by  me  had  just  before  thrown 
down  his  visage,  which  it  seems  was  too  long  for  him.  It  was, 
indeed,  extended  to  a shameful  length ; I believe  the  very  chin  was, 
modestly  speaking,  as  long  as  my  whole  face.  We  had,  both  of  us, 
an  opportunity  of  mending  ourselves;  and  all  the  contributions 
being  now  brought  in,  every  man  was  at  liberty  to  exchange  his 
misfortunes  for  those  of  another  person.  But  as  there  arose  many 
new  incidents  in  the  sequel  of  my  vision,  I shall  reserve  them  for 
the  subject  of  my  next  paper. 


In  my  last  paper,  I gave  my  reader  a sight  of  that  mountain 
of  miseries,  which  was  made  up  of  those  several  calamities  that 
afflict  the  minds  of  men.  I saw,  with  unspeakable  pleasure,  the 
whole  species  thus  delivered  from  its  sorrow;  though  at  the  same 
time,  as  we  stood  round  the  heap,  and  surveyed  the  several  ma- 
terials of  which  it  was  composed,  there  was  scarcely  a mortal,  in 
this  vast  multitude,  who  did  not  discover  what  he  thought  pleasures 
of  life ; and  wondered  how  the  owners  of  them  ever  came  to  look 
upon  them  as  burdens  and  grievances. 

As  we  were  regarding  very  attentively  this  confusion  of  miser- 
ies, this  chaos  of  calamity,  Jupiter  issued  out  a second  proclama- 
tion, that  every  one  was  now  at  liberty  to  exchange  his  afflic- 
tion, and  to  return  to  his  habitation  with  any  such  other  bundle  as 
should  be  delivered  to  him. 

Upon  this,  Fancy  began  again  to  bestir  herself,  and  parceling 


826 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


out  the  whole  heap  with  incredible  activity,  recommended  to  every 
one  his  particular  packet.  The  huny  and  confusion  at  this  time 
were  not  to  he  expressed.  Some  observations  which  I made  upon 
this  occasion  I shall  communicate  to  the  public.  A venerable, gray- 
headed man,  who  had  laid  down  the  colic,  and  who  I found  wanted 
an  heir  to  his  estate,  snatched'  up  an  undutiful  son,  that  had  been 
thrown  into  the  heap  by  an  angry  father.  The  graceless  youth,  in 
less  than  a quarter  of  an  hour,  pulled  the  old  gentleman  by  the 
heard,  and  had  like  to  have  knocked  his  brains  out;  so  that  meet- 
ing the  true  father,  who  came  toward  him  with  a fit  of  the  gripes, 
he  begged  him  to  take  his  son  again,  and  give  him  back  his  colic; 
hut  they  were  incapable  either  of  them  to  recede  from  the  choice  they 
had  made.  A poor  galley  slave  who  had  thrown  down  his  chains, 
took  up  the  gout  in  their  stead,  but  made  such  wry  faces,  that  one 
might  easily  perceive  he  was  no  great  gainer  by  the  bargain.  It 
was  pleasant  enough  to  see  the  several  exchanges  that  were  made, 
for  sickness  against  poverty,  hunger  against  want  of  appetite,  and 
care  against  pain. 

The  female  world  were  very  busy  among  themselves  in  barter- 
ing for  features ; one  was  trucking  a lock  of  gray  hairs  for  a car- 
buncle ; another  was  making  over  a short  waist  for  a pair  of  round 
shoulders ; and  a third  cheapening  a bad  face  for  a lost  reputation ; 
but  on  all  these  occasions,  there  was  not  one  of  them  who  did  not 
think  the  new  blemish,  as  soon  as  she  had  got  it  into  her  posses- 
sion, much  more  disagreeable  than  the  old  one.  I made  the  same 
observation  on  every  other  misfortune  or  calamity,  which  every  one 
in  the  assembly  brought  upon  himself,  in  lieu  of  what  he  had 
parted  with ; whether  it  be  that  all  the  evils  which  befall  us  are  in 
some  measure  suited  and  proportioned  to  our  strength,  or  that  every 
evil  becomes  more  supportable  by  our  being  accustomed  to  it,  I 
shall  not  determine. 

I could  not  for  my  heart  forbear  pitying  the  poor  humpbacked 
gentleman,  mentioned  in  the  former  paper,  who  went  off  a very 
well-shaped  person  with  a stone  in  his  bladder;  nor  the  fine  gentle- 
man who  had  struck  up  his  bargain  with  him,  that  limped  through 


” 


treasures  from  the  prose  world. 


327 


a whole  assembly  of  ladies  who  used  to  admire  him,  with  a pair  of 
shoulders  peeping  over  his  head. 

I must  not  omit  my  own  particular  adventure.  My  friend 
with  the  long  visage  had  no  sooner  taken  upon  him  my  short  face, 
but  he  made  so  grotesque  a figure,  that  as  I looked  upon  him  I 
could  not  forbear  laughing  at  myself,  insomuch  that  I put  my  own 
face  out  of  countenance.  The  poor  gentleman  was  so  sensible  of 
the  ridicule,  that  I found  he  was  ashamed  of  what  he  had  done;  on 
the  other  side,  I found  that  I myself  had 'no  great  reason  to  tri- 
umph, for  as  I went  to  touch  my  forehead  I missed  the  place,  and 
clapped  my  finger  upon  my  upper  lip.  Besides,  as  my  nose  was 
exceedingly  prominent,  I gave  it  two  or  three  unlucky  knocks  as  I 
was  playing  my  hand  about  my  face,  and  aiming  at  some  other 
part  of  it.  I saw  two  other  gentlemen  by  me,  who  were  in  the 
same  ridiculous  circumstances.  These  had  made  a foolish  exchange 
between  a couple  of  thick  bandy  legs,  and  two  long  trap  sticks  that 
had  no  calves  to  them.  One  of  these  looked  like  a man  walking 
upon  stilts,  and  was  so  lifted  up  into  the  air,  above  his  ordinary 
height,  that  his  head  turned  round  with  it;  while  the  other  made 
so  awkward  circles,  as  he  attempted  to  walk,  that  he  scarcely  knew 
how  to  move  forward  upon  his  new  supporters.  Observing  him  to 
be  a pleasant  kind  of  fellow,  I stuck  my  cane  in  the  ground,  and 
told  him  I would  lay  him  a bottle  of  wine,  that  he  did  not  march 
up  to  it,  on  a line  that  I drew  for  him,  in  a quarter  of  an  hour. 

The  heap  was  at  last  distributed  among  the  two  sexes,  who 
made  a most  piteous  sight,  as  they  wandered  up  and  down  under 
the  pressure  of  their  several  burdens.  The  whole  plain  was  filled 
with  murmurs  and  complaints,  groans  and  lamentations.  Jupiter, 
at  length,  taking  compassion  on  the  poor  mortals,  ordered  them  a 
second  time  to  lay  down  their  loads,  with  a design  to  give  everyone 
his  own  again.  They  discharged  themselves  with  a great  deal  of 
pleasure;  after  which,  the  phantom  who  had  led  them  into  such  gross 
delusions,  was  commanded  to  disappear.  There  was  sent  in  her 
stead  a goddess  of  a quite  different  figure ; her  motions  were  steady 
and  composed,  and  her  aspect  serious  but  cheerful.  She  every  now 


328 


■TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


and  then  cast  her  eyes  toward  heaven,  and  fixed  them  upon  Jupiter; 
her  name  was  Patience.  She  had  no  sooner  placed  herself  by  the 
Mount  of  Sorrows,  but,  what  I thought  very  remarkable,  the  whole 
heap  sunk  to  such  a degree,  that  it  did  not  appear  a third  part  so 
big  as  it  was  before.  She  afterward  returned  every  man  his  own 
proper  calamity,  and,  teaching  him  how  to  bear  it  in  the  most  com- 
modious manner,  he  marched  off  with  it  contentedly,  being  very 
well  pleased  that  he  had  not  been  left  to  his  own  choice,  as  to  the 
kind  of  evils  which  fell  to  his  lot. 

Besides  the  several  pieces  of  morality  to  be  drawn  out  of  this 
vision,  I learned  from  it  never  to  repine  at  my  own  misfortunes,  or 
to  envy  the  happiness  of  another,  since  it  is  impossible  for  any 
man  to  form  a right  judgment  of  his  neighbor’s  sufferings;  for 
which  reason  also,  I have  determined  never  to  think  too  lightly  of 
another’s  complaints,  but  to  regard  the  sorrows  of  my  fellow-creat- 
ures with  sentiments  of  humanity  and  compassion. 


In  the  Garret. 

Sarcastic  people  are  wont  to  say  that  poets  dwell  in  garrets, 
and  simple  people  believe  it.  And  others,  neither  sarcastic  nor 
simple,  send  them  up  aloft,  among  the  rubbish,  just  because  they 
do  not  know  what  to  do  with  them  downstairs,  and  “among  folks,” 
and  so  they  class  them  under  the  head  of  rubbish,  and  consign 
them  to  the  grand  receptacle  of  dilapidated  “has  been’s”  and  de- 
spised “used  to  be’s” — the  old  garret. 

The  garret  is  to  the  other  apartments  of  the  old  homestead 
what  the  adverb  is  to  the  pedagogue  in  parsing;  everything  they 
do  not  know  how  to  dispose  of  is  consigned  to  the  list  of  adverbs. 
And  it  is  for  this  precise  reason  that  we  love  garrets ; because  they 
do  contain  the  relics  of  the  old  and  the  past — remembrances  of 
other  and  happier  and  simpler  times.  They  have  come  to  build 
houses  nowadays  without  garrets.  Impious  innovation ! 


TEEASUEES  FEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


329 


You  man  of  bronze  and  “bearded  like  the  pard,”  who  would 
make  people  believe,  if  you  could,  that  you  never  were  a “toddlin' 
wee  thing;”  that  you  never  wore  a “ruffle-dress,”  or  jingled  a rat- 
tle-box with  infinite  delight ; that  you  never  had  a mother,  and  that 
she  never  became  an  old  woman,  and  wore  caps  and  spectacles, 
and,  maybe,  took  snuff;  go  home  once  more,  after  all  these  years 
of  absence,  all  booted  and  whiskered,  and  six  feet  high  as  you  are, 
and  let  us  go  up  the  stairs  together — in  that  old-fashioned, 
spacious  garret,  that  extends  from  gable  to  gable,  with  its  narrow 
old  windows,  with  a spider-web  of  a sash,  through  which  steals 
“a  dim  religious  light”  upon  a museum  of  things  unnamable,  that 
once  figured  below  stairs,  but  were  long  since  crowded  out  by  the 
Vandal  hand  of  these  modern  times. 

The  loose  boards  of  the  floor  rattle  somewhat  as  they  used  to 
do — don’t  they? — when  beneath  your  little  pattering  feet  they  clat- 
tered aforetime,  when,  of  a rainy  day,  “mother,”  wearied  with 
many-tongued  importunity,  granted  the  “Let  us  go  up  in  the  garret 
and  play.”  And  play!  Precious  little  of  “play”  have  you  had 
since,  we’ll  warrant,  with  your  looks  of  dignity,  and  your  dream- 
ings  of  ambition. 

Here  we  are  now  in  the  midst  of  the  garret.  The  old  barrel 
— shall  we  rummage  it?  Old  files  of  newspapers — dusty,  yellow,  a 
little  tattered!  ’Tis  the  “Columbian  Star.”  How  familiar  with  the 
“Letters  or  papers  for  father?”  And  these  same  Stars,  just  damp 
from  the  press,  were  carried  one  by  one  from  the  fireside,  and  pe- 
rused and  preserved  as  they  ought  to  be.  Stars?  Damp?  0 many 
a star  has  set  since  then,  and  many  a new- tufted  heap  grown  dewy 
and  damp  with  rain  that  fell  not  from  the  clouds. 

Dive  deeper  into  the  barrel.  There!  A bundle,  up  it  comes, 
in  a cloud  of  dust.  Old  almanacs,  by  all  that  is  memorable!  Al- 
manacs ! thin-leaved  ledgers  of  time,  going  back  to — let  us  see  how 
far;  184-,  183-,  182-, — before  our  time — 180-,  when  our  mothers 
were  children.  And  the  day-book— how  blotted  and  blurred  with 
many  records  and  many  tears ! 

There,  you  have  hit  your  head  against  that  beam.  Time  was 


330  TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 

when  yon  ran  to  and  fro  beneath  it,  but  you  are  nearer  to  it  now, 
by  more  than  the  “altitude  of  a copine.”  The  beam  is  strewn  with 
forgotten  papers  of  seeds  for  the  next  year’s  sowing;  a distaff,  with 
some  few  shreds  of  flax  remaining,  is  thrust  in  a crevice  of  the 
rafters  overhead;  and  tucked  away  close  under  the  eaves  is  “the 
little  wheel”  that  used  to  stand  by  the  fire  in  times  long  gone.  Its 
sweet  low  song  has  ceased;  and  perhaps — perhaps  she  who  drew 
those  flaxen  threads — but  never  mind — you  remember  the  line, 
don’t  you? — 

“Her  wheel  at  rest,  the  matron  charms  no  more.” 

Well,  let  that  pass.  Do  you  see  that  little  craft  careened  in 
that  dark  corner?  It  was  red  once;  it  was  the  only  casket  within 
the  house  once;  and  contained  a mother’s  jewels.  The  old  red 
cradle , for  all  the  world ! And  you  occupied  it  once ; ay,  great  as 
you  are,  it  was  your  world  once,  and  over  it,  the  only  horizon  you 
beheld,  bent  the  heaven  of  a mother’s  eyes,  as  you  rocked  in  that 
little  bark  of  love  on  the  hither  shore  of  time — fast  by  a mother’s 
love  to  a mother’s  heart. 

And  there,  attached  to  two  rafters,  are  the  fragments  of  an 
untwisted  rope.  Do  you  remember  it,  and  what  it  was  for,  and 
who  fastened  it  there?  ’Twas  “the  children’s  swing.”  You  are 
Here,  indeed,  but  where  are  Nelly  and  Charley  ! There  hangs  his 
little  cap  by  the  window,  and  there  the  little  red  frock  she  used  to 
wear.  A crown  is  resting  on  his  cherub  brow,  and  her  robes  are 
spotless  in  the  better  land. 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD . 


331 


Anglo-Saxon  Influences  of  Home. 

In  the  sunny  climes  of  Southern  Europe,  where  a sultry  and 
relaxing  day  is  followed  by  a balmy  and  refreshing  night,  and  but  a 
brief  period  intervenes  between  the  fruits  of  Autumn  and  the  re- 
newed promises  of  Spring,  life,  both  social  and  industrial,  is  chiefly 
passed  beneath  the  open  canopy  of  heaven.  The  brightest  hours 
of  the  livelong  day  are  dragged  in  drowsy,  listless  toil,  or  indolent 
repose;  but  the  evening  breeze  invigorates  the  fainting  frame, 
rouses  the  flagging  spirit,  and  calls  to  dance,  and  revelry,  and  song, 
beneath  a brilliant  moon  or  a starlit  sky.  No  necessity  exists 
for  those  household  comforts  which  are  indispensable  to  the  inhab- 
itants of  colder  zones,  and  the  charms  of  domestic  life  are  scarcely 
known  in  their  perfect  growth.  But  in  the  frozen  North,  for  a 
large  portion  of  the  year,  the  pale  and  feeble  rays  of  a clouded  sun 
but  partially  dispol,  for  a few  short  hours,  the  chills  and  shades  of 
a Angering  dawn,  and  an  early  and  tedious  night.  Snows  impede 
the  closing  labors  of  harvest,  and  stiffening  frosts  aggravate  the 
fatigues  of  the  wayfarer,  and  the  toils  of  the  forest.  Bepose, 
society,  and  occupation  alike,  must,  therefore,  be  sought  at  the 
domestic  hearth.  Secure  from  the  tempest  that  howls  without,  the 
father  and  the  brother  here  rest  from  their  weary  tasks ; here  the 
family  circle  is  gathered  around  the  evening  meal,  and  lighter 
labor,  cheered,  not  interrupted,  by  social  intercourse,  is  resumed, 
and  often  protracted,  till,  like  the  student’s  vigils,  it  almost  “out- 
watch  the  Bear.”  Here  the  child  grows  up  under  the  ever  watch- 
ful eye  of  the  parent,  in  the  first  and  best  of  schools,  where  lisping 
infancy  is  taught  the  rudiments  of  sacred  and  profane  knowledge, 
and  the  older  pupil  is  encouraged  to  con  over  by  the  evening  taper, 
the  lessons  of  the  day,  and  seek  from  the  father  or  a more  advanced 
brother,  a solution  of  the  problems  which  juvenile  industry  has 
found  too  hard  to  master. 

The  members  of  the  domestic  circle  are  thus  brought  into 
closer  contact;  parental  authority  assumes  the  gentler  form  of  per- 


332 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


suasive  influences,  and  filial  submission  is  elevated  to  affectionate 
and  respectful  observance.  The  necessity  of  mutual  aid  and  for- 
bearance, and  the  perpetual  interchange  of  good  offices,  generate 
the  tenderest  kindliness  of  feeling,  and  a lasting  warmth  of  attach- 
ment to  home  and  its  inmates,  throughout  the  patriarchal  circle. 

Among  the  most  important  fruits  of  this  domesticity  of  life, 
are  the  better  appreciation  of  the  worth  of  the  female  character, 
woman’s  higher  rank  as  an  object,  not  of  passion,  but  of  reverence, 
and  the  reciprocal  moral  influence  which  the  two  sexes  exercise 
over  each  other. 

They  are  brought  into  close  communion  under  circumstances 
most  favorable  to  preserve  the  purity  of  woman,  and  the  decorum 
of  man,  and  the  character  of  each  is  modified,  and  its  excesses 
restrained,  by  the  example  of  the  other. 

Man’s  rude  energies  are  softened  into  something  of  the  ready 
sympathy  and  dexterous  helpfulness  of  woman,  and  woman,  as 
she  learns  to  prize  and  to  reverence  the  independence,  the  heroic 
firmness,  the  patriotism  of  man,  acquires  and  appropriates  some 
tinge  of  his  peculiar  virtues.  Such  were  the  influences  which 
formed  the  heart  of  the  brave,  good  daughter  of  apostolic  John 
Knox,  who  bearded  that  truculent  pedant,  James  I,  and  told  him 
she  would  rather  receive  her  husband’s  head  in  her  lap,  as  it  fell 
from  the  headsman’s  axe,  than  to  consent  that  he  should  purchase 
his  life  by  apostasy  from  the  religion  he  had  preached,  and  the  God 
he  had  worshiped.  To  the  same  noble  school  belonged  that  goodly 
company  of  the  Mothers  of  New  England,  who  shrank  neither  from 
the  dangers  of  the  tempestuous  sea,  nor  the  hardships  and  sorrows  of 
that  first  awful  Winter,  but  were  ever  at  man’s  side,  encouraging, 
aiding,  consoling,  in  every  peril,  every  trial,  every  grief. 

Had  that  grand  and  heroic  exodus,  like  the  mere  commercial 
enterprises  to  which  most  colonies  owe  their  foundation,  been  unac- 
companied by  woman,  at  its  first  outgoing,  it  had,  without  a visi- 
ble miracle,  assuredly  failed,  and  the  world  had  wanted  its  fairest' 
example  of  the  Christian  virtues,  its  most  unequivocal  tokens  that 
the  Providence  which  kindled  the  pillar  of  fire  to  lead  the  wan- 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


333 


dering  steps  of  its  people,  yet  has  its  chosen  tribes,  to  whom  it 
vouchsafes  its  wisest  guidance  and  its  choicest  blessings.  Other 
communities,  nations,  races,  may  glory  in  the  exploits  of  their 
fathers;  but  it  has  been  reserved  to  us  of  New  England  to  know 
and  to  boast,  that  Providence  has  made  the  virtues  of  our  mothers 
a yet  more  indispensable  condition  and  certain  ground,  both  of  our 
past  prosperity  and  our  future  hope. 

The  strength  of  the  domestic  feeling  engendered  by  the  influ- 
ences which  I have  described,  and  the  truer  and  more  intelligent 
mutual  regard  between  the  sexes,  which  is  attributable  to  the  same 
causes,  are  the  principal  reasons  why  those  monastic  institutions, 
which  strike  at  the  very  root  of  the  social  fabric,  and  are  eminently 
hostile  to  the  practice  of  the  noblest  and  loveliest  public  and  private 
virtues,  have  met  with  less  success,  and  numbered  fewer  votaries  in 
Northern  than  in  Southern  Christendom.  The  celibacy  of  the 
clergy  was  last  adopted,  and  first  abandoned,  in  the  North;  the  fol- 
lies of  the  Stylites,  the  lonely  hermitages  of  the  Thebaid,  the  silence 
of  La  Trappe,  the  vows,  which,  seeming  to  renounce  the  pleasures 
of  the  world,  do  but  abjure  its  better  sympathies,  and,  in  fine,  all 
the  selfish  austerities  of  that  corrupted  Christianity,  which  grossly 
seeks  to  compound  by  a mortified  body  for  an  unsubdued  heart, 
originated  in  climates  unfavorable  to  the  growth  and  exercise  of  the 
household  virtues. 


334 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


Thoughts  on  Various  Subjects. 

It  is  pleasant  to  observe  how  free  the  present  age  is  in  laying 
taxes  on  the  next : “Future  ages  shall  talk  of  this ; this  shall  be  famous 
to  all  posterity;  ” whereas  their  time  and  thoughts  will  be  taken  up 
about  present  things,  as  ours  are  now. 

It  is  in  disputes  as  in  armies,  where  the  weaker  side  setteth  up 
false  lights,  and  maketh  a great  noise,  that  the  enemy  may  believe 
them  to  be  more  numerous  and  strong  than  they  really  are. 

I have  known  some  men  possessed  of  good  qualities,  which 
were  very  serviceable  to  others,  but  useless  to  themselves;  like  a 
sun-dial  on  the  front  of  a house,  to  inform  the  neighbors  and  pas- 
sengers, but  not  the  owner  within. 

If  a man  would  register  all  his  opinions  upon  love,  politics, 
religion,  learning,  etc.,  beginning  from  his  youth,  and  so  go  on  to 
old  age,  what  a bundle  of  inconsistencies  and  contradictions  would 
appear  at  last ! 

The  stoical  scheme  of  supplying  our  wants  by  lopping  off  our 
desires,  is  like  cutting  off  our  feet  when  we  want  shoes. 

The  reason  why  so  few  marriages  are  happy,  is  because  young 
ladies  spend  their  time  in  making  nets,  not  in  making  cages. 

Censure  is  the  tax  a man  payeth  to  the  public  for  being  emi- 
nent. 

No  wise  man  ever  wished  to  be  younger. 

An  idle  reason  lessens  the  weight  of  the  good  ones  you  gave 
before. 

Complaint  is  the  largest  tribute  Heaven  receives,  and  the  sin- 
cerest  part  of  our  devotion. 

The  common  fluency  of  speech  in  many  men  and  most  women 
is  owing  to  a scarcity  of  matter  and  scarcity  of  words ; for  who- 
ever is  a master  of  language,  and  hath  a mind  full  of  ideas,  will 
be  apt,  in  speaking,  to  hesitate  upon  the  choice  of  both;  whereas 
common  speakers  have  only  one  set  of  ideas,  and  one  set  of 


TEEASUEES  FEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


835 


words  to  clothe  them  in,  and  these  are  always  ready  at  the  mouth. 
So  people  come  faster  out  of  a church  when  it  is  almost  empty, 
than  when  a crowd  is  at  the  door. 

To  be  vain  is  rather  a mark  of  humility  than  pride.  Vain 
men  delight  in  telhng  what  honors  have  been  done  them,  what 
great  company  they  have  kept,  and  the  like ; by  wThich  they  plainly 
confess  that  these  honors  were  more  than  due,  and  such  as  their 
friends  would  not  believe  if  they  had  not  been  told;  whereas  a 
man  truly  proud  thinks  the  greatest  honors  below  his  merit,  and 
consequently  scorns  to  boast.  I therefore  deliver  it  as  a maxim, 
that  whoever  desires  the  character  of  a proud  man  ought  to  con- 
ceal his  vanity. 

Every  man  desireth  to  live  long,  but  no  man  would  be  old. 

If  books  and  laws  continue  to  increase  as  they  have  done  for 
fifty  years  past,  I am  in  some  concern  for  future  ages,  how  any 
man  will  he  learned,  or  any  man  a lawyer. 

If  a man  maketh  me  keep  my  distance,  the  comfort  is,  he 
keepeth  his  at  the  same  time. 

Very  few  men,  properly  speaking,  live  at  present,  but  are  pro- 
viding to  live  another  time. 

Princes  in  their  infancy,  childhood,  and  youth,  are  said  to  dis- 
cover prodigious  parts  and  wit,  to  speak  things  that  surprise  and 
astonish;  strange,  so  many  hopeful  princes,  so  many  shameful 
kings ! If  they  happened  to  die  young,  they  would  have  been  prod- 
igies of  wisdom  and  virtue ; if  they  live,  they  are  often  prodigies, 
indeed,  but  of  another  sort . 


336 


TREASUEES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


BRET  HARTE. 


RANCIS  BRET  HARTE  was  bom  in  Albany,  New  York, 


August  25,  1837,  and  is  now  in  the  prime  of  life.  His 


father  died  while  Bret  was  very  young.  When  but  seven- 
teen years  of  age,  young  Harte  went  to  California  and  led  a 
roving  life  for  three  years,  sometimes  digging  for  gold,  some- 
times teaching  school,  and  finally  acting  as  an  express  man- 
ager. He  was  schooled  in  active  life  as  a miner  and  teacher, 
next  as  a compositor  and  contributor,  subsequently  as  a 
member  of  the  editorial  staff,  and  finally  as  editor  of  the 
Californian,  a literary  weekly.  From  1864  to  1870,  he  held 
the  office  of  secretary  of  the  United  States  branch  mint  in 
San  Francisco. 

In  1868  the  Overland  Monthly  was  started,  and  Bret 
Harte  was  selected  as  editor.  In  the  August  number  of  that 
year  appeared  his  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,  and  still  later.  The 
Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat.  From  the  latter  work,  we  have  made 
our  selection.  “ The  Society  upon  the  Stanislan,”  “ John 
Burns  of  Gettysburg,”  “The  Pliocene  Skull,”  and  “The 
Heathen  Chinee,”  are  his  well  known  productions. 

“ There  is  an  amusing  story  to  the  effect  that  the  proof- 
reader, a young  woman  with  a superabundance  of  modesty, 
reported  to  the  publishers  that  his  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp 
was  a most  shocking  article,  unfit  for  publication,  that  the 
publishers  took  the  alarm  and  besought  Harte  to  withdraw 
it,  and  that  he  made  its  appearance  the  condition  of  his  re- 
taining the  editorship.  This  sketch,  which  met  with  an  en- 
thusiastic reception  from  the  entire  reading  public,  was  the 


THE  LANDING  PLACES  NEAR  SANTIAGO. 

llalqnlri,  AKnadore.,  Plaja  del  Bate  and  Aserrndero,  Where  American  Troops  Have  Been  Landed  and  Are  Now  Encamped. 

[Philadelphia  Press.] 


— r— »i 


a 

rt>  ^ 

fia  S 
o ^ 


3o  2 2 2 >p  spa  2 ^o 

ggwSg^g,*  g?§ 

^o^p^Sog'gl.01  ^p 


tV  Q^> 

O'®  0 _ 

rt-  ^ P .,  v 

£op,  33-5 
pp  £o£k  g®* 

W<J  §3® 

? o p 


< O 3 3 " < 

4?v'<!a-a  os-a  _a 

Ig-§-i5  #M  °S 

I“5<  § l2»”  S-3 

“-mg's«  ^^5  * 63 

P 6 O'  P 


g.3®  2-  . 

y?  ^ r+  ^ a o *- 
Oo£.Po,£  ®3-S 
®3  •-»  35  as  P*  to  *<  <JQ  Y 


o-og 


utrc|i^is4!!pii 

w«<*  5^22W01© 

1 g.g  § «*g  ,£3_2. 

ho  § ^ 


> VJ  ■ 3^goiaJ 

§i?^§||||Iw||w||r 

33  **§  o p 3 * g!  o'p  3 c^3  p®3 

SS  t>®  ® 5-p<*  ^ ..S3?5  3 ® ff'ff®  8 

? o ^ * 
o 

3* 


•pCP  ■ V a 

— 3 3 ^ 


P w p ft  ja* 

R o OT  c;  3 

o Q 2. 

m 2.0 

3 ® | p5  ^ 

. (D  2 ' CD 

5^3  pP 


' ■ cu  cr 

^Pil 

P--  W 


» O *—  V 

3^egpSMg3a 

gsSs'*®  S*^ 
Ss^^f -~3 

m h-_.o 


H3 

^ *d  ts 

qr»  £ Wo 

O B 3 ® 


if^ps\,3. 

P 0*3  a g3£|o*P 

^3»ff  3 0 50  £ 

ft£g  £3.030  3^  £ 

r-t-  a 3 . B in  f8  o |J  3 P r/s 

crp*3  ® &>E:S  p qp  ffl  3 

o P ® w 3'P  g.|i~  ®M'qO«m 

•n  S'®  2 P'triW^w  ®-  L?^poc 
O-a  X o 5*0  £:£<  p Of  ® >-j  <g 

XJ  U 1 rt  m 3 O ^ » ii  CL  *r  r+  os 

© P P P H ^ c*-^  P 2 P-Hrl^p 

6-ffi“»3  O S'®  O-B  2 p Hto'W  33 

7 3 1 3 o p -T*  v;  & ?■  - P m . =<  p <t> 


- o s 3 

3 . » „ 

&g,C 


P 1— ( 
>5  o 2« 
3 o o 


o so®  a 
tf®  i1  3 W 
r+  C N m 

£ 3.  p o.  I 

0.0  g O' 

p 3 ^ S- 

5*  ^ o " 


3*  . o ~ 

p a 3 3 5 

< ti  p p p 

<Xr  Ul  W <D  P* 


I3*e  I 

►a  Hoq  „ *S 

-**  gg  S 


3*3  W«  g S’ 

p 0Q  P *3  il  I- 
«-►  3 3-  6 P . . 


*£  3 « £ p £ 

3 3 S 3 £ 

H!  & 3 ® ckj  g 

p 2 ^ -a  3 3* 

S ^ p g o 

3 o t»  & a 

CL  l-h  p 3 _ 

->3  a b o 

5 q p p 3 

2 r+  <4-  03  W 

^3*3-  o h-k 


2 p 2-3 


B as  Q,  ® 4 


b'SS  p 

0 *<  ® > <j 

*3  to  3 o 


: i a 3 S'!-  ^ S g1 

1 1- 1 a • ® o»S 

o® g§  ®‘ 

^ s3Pb*hoo 

’p^PoOS  p- 
.p^qpQ^mg  ^ 
?^“3®  33 

o* 


r+  lp  rt  a o « 
OP3??a J 
® 3 o.  ft  3-  ^ 3 
02“  a.SQ*N 


a 2 


& *< 


3 G,  *3  3 _ 

_ 3-p  ^ C-  O 
S ^ 2 3 P K. 

§g.SS  S a 


fi;rp 

iiw®  s ! 


r-  p C 

r 5 CG-S  3 

p j s.  £•  2 

as«r^ 
• * ®.  . - 2 

<0 


S-oI9p! 


w 


2.  bT  & is  5 


p s § o-j: 

3 H.  ? £.® 


2 1 

' " l>  3 £W 

L_iO««ioP22  m 

.^^psappOg.aj 

op&pa&O'Spo- 
C < p o 1 ® 2 3 r 
3SL33P2^3-3  S 
B.p^pPki'^S'  p 

III  Infill 


ft  g * * % 5 W 
3 ^o| 

® P B 3 p O'  3 

g p 4 3 ft  ag, 
^ 2-  o'  §;  ft  j#  * 

§o|?gF. 

<5.  2 O'  S M ^ 

g | o ® 3 §’ 


1 ^2  p ^ i» 

" "‘E'SegSsy 

~ p i r *<  •<  p 


d S^r-ppgp 

5 ^7232-^5 


P o 


-W  f 3 S Jti  S. 
_ 2 p p <t>  o 

O -fftnas 


O 3 


■ ocj?  2.  2 
o 
o' 


'<3* 

c ® o 
3:  & c tr*  a 

P <-*•  p n 
- rr  - 'V 


M ^ 3 S'  3 g 1 
3 cr3^  2 3 
3 ®£  - "o 

3 poSP  a 

I . 

g.asa| 

* ?-P  O a- 


w ^ r -L.ttjB’-IO  2 

a 3„  Pt3Lr?t:p>l1_iaj 

- - CQt_,p  p 3 O p % t-a-a 


O P 


C 0 

a a jin 
p O 

sb  v<  a-* 

M P 3?  S-  - * O 


3 O 


^ <j  o*  2 

< p o 

^ <p  3 


-a  ® 


“'"opS'3*3'3®3 

3‘  pj  J3  2 0 P m O 3 

*< 


QO 

®2®  3.  PoPLTPP_.pPj3-p 

O ^ 3't!  ^ p - 

, 3 23  3 

3 GO 


„ ^ ^ GO  p P 

0^  2 2>3®o&cr 


2.P  ® p p 

P M 5-ft 


O 2 


er  S.  o*  cr 

3 OJ  . - 
at  • ^ P 


3 *i 


S' 

® *P  c w 
waq3-- 
5 3 CO  ^ 

Op  S'  03 
q ^ o p 
jqp  p ° 3' 

MU 


JgS-s 

gftggg=P& 

J og^fip^  o 

3j  U3  Pi  P 3 (p 
^ w Si  ocrq  Pi 
r+^LBq-S  O P 


Pcs'  »<(2a3®-'5 

tUir4  >3  cd  Oj,  . 

J <p‘pe“^^cr. 
5q3  ooo“oO&® 


' T O 2 

• ' M P 
Pi  - *-J 

a'  p 01  m 

8?:i6i 

“ $ 2 S 0,  g 
“ § 2 _3 


►ro® 


3*3- 


3 ®3?o^5Eo 

o <J  St1  3^  «<i  3 

*< 

at  O p ^ p 

gsss  !.&§!;; 

3^3  g 
• o^o2.“-- 


^ '<  p 


5S£g^S 

’SMi^Pp  J 


so-oq 

m P —P 


too 


3 -iPip  O 


p p p 3" 
3 9-31 


BRET  HARTE. 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


337 


beginning  of  his  most  artistic  and  effective  work.”  Now  the 
best  journals  and  magazines  in  the  country  are  glad  to  se- 
cure his  valuable  and  interesting  contributions.  In  1870, 
Harte  held  the  position  as  Professor  of  Recent  Literature  in 
the  University  of  California.  In  1871,  he  severed  his  con- 
nection with  the  literary  and  school  work  of  the  West,  and 
fixed  his  residence  in  New  York  City.  His  Condensed  Novels, 
two  volumes  of  short  stories,  and  volumes  of  poems,  as  well 
as  the  other  works  mentioned  in  this  sketch,  are  deservedly 
popular. 

Mr.  Harte  is  now  enjoying  the  Summer  of  life  as  a prom- 
inent lyceum  lecturer. 


388  TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat. 

The  following  selections  from  Bret  Harte’s  pen  are  beautiful  in  the  extreme.  It» 
length  prevents  us  from  giving  the  entire  sketch  here  : 

As  the  shadows  crept  slowly  up  the  mountain,  a slight  breeze 
rocked  the  tops  of  the  pine-trees,  and  moaned  through  their  long 
and  gloomy  aisles.  The  ruined  cabin,  patched  and  covered  with 
pine  boughs,  was  set  apart  for  the  ladies.  As  the  lovers  parted, 
they  unaffectedly  exchanged  a kiss,  so  honest  and  sincere  that  it 
might  have  been  heard  above  the  swaying  pines.  The  frail  Duchess 
and  the  malevolent  Mother  Shipton  were  probably  too  stunned  to 
remark  upon  this  last  evidence  of  simplicity,  and  so  turned  without 
a word  to  the  hut.  The  fire  was  replenished,  the  men  lay  down 
before  the  door,  and  in  a few  minutes  were  asleep. 

n 

The  third  day  came,  and  the  sun,  looking  through  the  white- 
curtained  valley,  saw  the  outcasts  divide  their  slowly  decreasing 
store  of  provisions  for  the  morning  meal.  It  was  one  of  the  pecul- 
iarities of  that  mountain  climate  that  its  rays  diffused  a kindly 
warmth  over  the  wintry  landscape,  as  if  in  regretful  commiseration 
of  the  past.  But  it  revealed  drift  on  drift  of  snow  piled  high 
around  the  hut — a hopeless,  uncharted,  trackless  sea  of  white,  lying 
below  the  rocky  shores  to  which  the  castaways  still  clung. 
Through  the  marvelously  clear  air  the  smoke  of  the  pastoral  vil- 
lage of  Poker  Flat  rose  miles  away.  Mother  Shipton  saw  it,  and 
from  a remote  pinnacle  of  her  rocky  fastness  hurled  in  that  direc- 
tion a final  malediction.  It  was  her  last  vituperative  attempt,  and 
perhaps  for  that  reason  was  invested  witl  a certain  degree  of  sub- 
limity. It  did  her  good,  she  privately  informed*  the  Duchess. 
“Just  you  go  out  there  and  cuss,  and  see.”  She  then  set  herself  to 
the  task  of  amusing  “the  child,”  as  she  and  the  Duchess  were 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


839 


pleased  to  call  Piney.  Piney  was  no  chicken,  but  it  was  a sooth- 
ing and  original  theory  of  the  pair  thus  to  account  for  the  fact  that 
she  didn’t  swear  and  wasn’t  improper. 

When  night  crept  up  again  through  the  gorges,  the  reedy  notes 
of  the  accordion  rose  and  fell  in  fitful  spasms  and  long-drawn  gasps 
by  the  flickering  camp-fire.  But  music  failed  to  fill  entirely  the 
aching  void  left  by  insufficient  food,  and  a new  diversion  was  pro- 
posed by  Piney — story-telling. 

Neither  Mr.  Oakhurst  nor  his  female  companions  caring  to  re- 
late their  personal  experiences,  this  plan  would  have  failed  too,  but 
for  the  Innocent.  Some  months  before  he  had  chanced  upon  a 
stray  copy  of  Mr.  Pope’s  ingenious  translation  of  the  Iliad.  He 
now  proposed  to  narrate  the  principal  incidents  of  that  poem — hav- 
ing thoroughly  mastered  the  argument  and  fairly  forgotten  the 
words — in  the  current  vernacular  of  Sandy  Bar.  And  so  for  the 
rest  of  that  night  the  Homeric  demigods  again  walked  the  earth. 
Trojan  bully  and  wily  Greek  wrestled  in  the  winds,  and  the  great 
pines  in  the  canyon  seemed  to  bow  to  the  wrath  of  the  son  of 
Peleus.  Mr.  Oakhurst  listened  with  quiet  satisfaction.  Most  es- 
pecially was  he  interested  in  the  fate  of  “Ash-heels,”  as  the  Inno- 
cent persisted  in  denominating  the  “swift-footed  Achilles.” 

So,  with  small  food  and  much  of  Homer  and  the  accordion,  a 
week  passed  over  the  heads  of  the  outcasts.  The  sun  again  forsook 
them,  and  again  from  leaden  skies  the  snow-flakes  were  sifted  over 
the  land.  Hay  by  day  closer  around  them  drew  the  snowy  circle, 
until  at  last  they  looked  from  their  prison  over  drifted  walls  of  daz- 
zling white,  that  towered  twenty  feet  above  their  heads.  It  became 
more  and  more  difficult  to  replenish  their  fires,  even  from  the  fall- 
en trees  beside  them,  now  half  hidden  in  the  drifts.  And  yet  no 
one  complained.  The  lovers  turned  from  the  dreary  prospect  and 
looked  into  each  other’s  eyes,  and  were  happy.  Mr.  Oakhurst  set- 
tled himself  coolly  to  the  losing  game  before  him.  The  Duchess, 
more  cheerful  than  she  had  been,  assumed  the  care  of  Piney.  Only 
Mother  Shipton — once  the  strongest  of  the  party — seemed  to  sick- 
en and  fade.  At  midnight  on  the  tenth  day  she  called  Oakhurst  to 
her  side. 


340 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


“I’m  going,”  she  said  in  a voice  of  querulous  weakness,  “but 
don’t  say  anything  about  it.  Don’t  waken  the  kids.  Take  the 
bundle  from  under  my  head,  and  open  it.”  Mr.  Oakhurst  did  so. 
It  contained  Mother  Shipton’s  rations  for  the  last  week,  untouched. 
“Give  ’em  to  the  child,”  she  said,  pointing  to  the  sleeping  Piney. 
“You’ve  starved  yourself,”  said  the  gambler.  “That’s  what  they 
call  it,”  said  the  woman,  querulously,  as  she  lay  down  again,  and, 
turning  her  face  to  the  wall,  passed  quietly  away.  * * * 

III 

Night  came,  but  not  Mr.  Oakhurst.  It  brought  the  storm 
again  and  the  whirling  snow.  Then  the  Duchess,  feeding  the  fire, 
found  that  some  one  had  quietly  piled  beside  the  hut  enough  fuel  to 
last  a few  days  longer.  The  tears  rose  to  her  eyes,  but  she  hid 
them  from  Piney. 

The  women  slept  but  little.  In  the  morning,  looking  into 
each  other’s  faces,  they  read  their  fate.  Neither  spoke;  but  Piney, 
accepting  the  position  of  the  stronger,  drew  near  and  placed  her 
arm  around  the  Duchess’  waist.  They  kept  this  attitude  for  the 
rest  of  the  day.  That  night  the  storm  reached  its  greatest  fury, 
and  rending  asunder  the  protecting  pines,  invaded  the  very  hut. 

Toward  morning  they  found  themselves  unable  to  feed  the 
fire,  which  gradually  died  away.  As  the  embers  slowly  blackened, 
the  Duchess  crept  closer  to  Piney,  and  broke  the  silence  of  many 
hours:  “Piney,  can  you  pray?” 

“No,  dear,”  said  Piney,  simply.  The  Duchess,  without  knowing 
exactly  why,  felt  relieved,  and,  putting  her  head  upon  Piney’ s 
shoulder,  spoke  no  more.  And  so  reclining,  the  younger  and 
purer  pillowing  the  head  of  her  soiled  sister  upon  her  virgin  breast, 
they  fell  asleep. 

The  wind  lulled  as  if  it  feared  to  waken  them.  Feathery 
drifts  of  snow,  shaken  from  the  long  pine-boughs,  flew  like  white- 
winged birds,  and  settled  about  them  as  they  slept.  The  moon, 
through  the  rifted  clouds,  looked  down  upon  what  had  been  the 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


841 


camp.  But  all  human  stain,  all  trace  of  earthly  travail,  was  hid- 
den beneath  the  spotless  mantle  mercifully  flung  from  above. 

They  slept  all  that  day  and  the  next ; nor  did  they  waken  when 
voices  and  footsteps  broke  the  silence  of  the  camp.  And  when 
pitying  fingers  brushed  the  snow  from  their  wan  faces,  you  could 
scarcely  have  told  from  the  equal  peace  that  dwelt  upon  them, 
which  was  she  that  had  sinned.  Even  the  law  of  Poker  Flat 
recognized  this,  and  turned  away,  leaving  them  still  locked  in  each 
other’s  arms. 


Gentle  Hands. 

When  and  where,  it  matters  not  now  to  relate — but  once  upon 
a time,  as  I was  passing  through  a thinly  peopled  district  of  coun- 
try, night  came  down  upon  me,  almost  unawares.  Being  on  foot, 
I could  not  hope  to  gain  the  village  toward  which  my  steps  were 
directed,  until  a late  hour;  and  I therefore  preferred  seeking  shel- 
ter and  a night’s  lodging  at  the  first  humble  dwelling  that  presented 
itself. 

Dusky  twilight  was  giving  place  to  deeper  shadows,  when  I 
found  myself  in  the  vicinity  of  a dwelling,  from  the  small  uncur- 
tained windows  of  which  the  light  shone  with  a pleasant  promise 
of  good  cheer  and  comfort.  The  house  stood  within  an  enclosure, 
and  a short  distance  from  the  road  along  which  I was  moving  wdtli 
wearied  feet.  Turning  aside,  and  passing  through  the  ill-hung 
gate,  I approached  the  dwelling.  Slowly  the  gate  swung  on  its 
wooden  hinges,  and  the  rattle  of  its  latch,  in  closing,  did  not  dis- 
turb the  air  until  I had  nearly  reached  the  little  porch  in  front  of 
the  house,  in  which  a slender  girl,  who  had  noticed  my  entrance, 
stood  awaiting  my  arrival. 

A deep,  quick  bark  answered,  almost  like  an  echo,  the  sound 
of  the  shutting  gate,  and,  sudden  as  an  apparition,  the  form  of  an 
immense  dog  loomed  in  the  door- way.  At  the  instant  when  he 


342 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


was  about  to  spring,  a light  hand  was  laid  upon  his  shaggy  neck 
and  a low  word  spoken. 

“Go  in,  Tiger,”  said  the  girl,  not  in  a voice  of  authority,  yet  in 
her  gentle  tones  was  the  consciousness  that  she  would  he  obeyed; 
and,  as  she  spoke,  she  lightly  bore  upon  the  animal  with  her  hand, 
and  he  turned  away,  and  disappeared  within  the  dwelling.  “Who’s 
that?”  A rough  voice  asked  the  question;  and  now  a heavy-look- 
ing man  took  the  dog’s  place  in  the  door. 

“How  far  is  it  to  G ?”  I asked,  not  deeming  it  best  to  say, 

in  the  beginning,  that  I sought  a resting-place  for  the  night. 

“To  G ” growled  the  man,  but  not  so  harshly  as  at  first. 

“It’s  good  six  miles  from  here.” 

“Along  distance;  and  I’m  a stranger,  and  on  foot,”  said  I. 
“If  you  can  make  room  for  me  until  morning,  I will  be  very  thank- 
ful.” 

I saw  the  girl’s  hand  move  quickly  up  his  arm,  until  it  rested 
on  his  shoulder,  and  now  she  leaned  to  him  still  closer. 

“Come  in.  We’ll  try  what  can  be  done  for  you.”  There  was 
a change  in  the  man’s  voice  that  made  me  wonder. 

I entered  a large  room,  in  which  blazed  a brisk  fire.  Before 
the  fire  sat  two  stout  lads,  who  turned  upon  me  their  heavy  eyes, 
with  no  very  welcome  greeting.  A middle-aged  woman  was  stand- 
ing at  a table  and  two  children  were  amusing  themselves  with  a 
kitten  on  the  floor. 

“A  stranger,  mother,”  said  the  man  who  had  given  me  so  rude 
a greeting  at  the  door;  “and  he  wants  us  to  let  him  stay  all  night.” 

The  woman  looked  at  me  doubtingly  for  a few  moments,  and 
then  replied  coldly — 

“We  don’t  keep  a public-house.” 

“I  am  aware  of  that,  ma’am,”  said  I;  “but  night  has  overtaken 
me,  and  it’s  a long  way  yet  to .” 

“Too  far  for  a tired  man  to  go  on  foot,”  said  the  master  of 
the  house,  kindly,  “so  it’s  no  use  talking  about  it,  mother;  we 
must  give  him  a bed.” 

So  unobtrusively  that  I scarcely  noticed  the  movement,  the 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


348 


girl  had  drawn  to  the  woman’s  side.  What  she  said  to  her  I did 
not  hear,  for  the  brief  words  were  uttered  in  a low  voice ; but  I 
noticed,  as  she  spoke,  one  small,  fair  hand  rested  on  the  woman’s 
hand.  Was  there  magic  in  that  gentle  touch?  The  woman’s  re- 
pulsive aspect  changed  into  one  of  kindly  welcome,  and  she  said : 

“Yes,  it’s  a long  way  to  G- . I guess  we  can  find  a place 

for  him.’, 

Many  times  more,  during  that  evening,  did  I observe  the 
magic  power  of  that  hand  and  voice — the  one  gentle,  yet  potent, 
as  the  other. 

On  the  next  morning,  breakfast  being  over,  I was  preparing  to 
take  my  departure,  when  my  host  informed  me  that  if  I would  wait 

for  half  an  hour  he  would  give  me  a ride  in  his  wagon  to  G , 

as  business  required  him  to  go  there.  I was  very  well  pleased  to 
accept  of  the  invitation.  In  due  time,  the  farmer’s  wagon  was 
driven  into  the  road  before  the  house,  and  I was  invited  to  get  in. 
I noticed  the  horse  as  a rough-looking  Canadian  pony,  with  a cer- 
tain air  of  stubborn  endurance.  As  the  farmer  took  his  seat  by 
my  side,  the  family  came  to  the  door  to  see  us  off. 

“Dick!”  said  the  farmer  in  a peremptory  voice,  giving  the  rein 
a quick  jerk  as  he  spoke. 

But  Dick  moved  not  a step. 

“Dick!  you  vagabond!  get  up.”  And  the  farmer’s  whip 
cracked  sharply  by  the  pony’s  ear. 

It  availed  not,  however,  the  second  appeal.  Dick  stood  firmly 
disobedient.  Next  the  whip  was  brought  down  upon  him  with  an 
impatient  hand ; but  the  pony  only  reared  up  a little.  Fast  and 
sharp  the  strokes  were  next  dealt  to  the  numbdr  of  half-a-dozen. 
The  man  might  as  well  have  beaten  his  wagon,  for  all  his  end  was 
gained. 

A stout  lad  now  came  out  into  the  road,  and  catching  Dick  by  the 
bridle,  jerked  him  forward,  using,  at  the  same  time,  the  customary 
language  on  such  occasions,  but  Dick  met  this  new  ally  with  in- 
creased stubbornness,  planting  his  forefeet  more  firmly,  and  at  a 
sharper  angle  with  the  ground.  The  impatient  boy  now  struck  the 


344 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


pony  on  the  side  of  his  head  with  his  clinched  hand,  and  jerked 
cruelly  at  his  bridle.  It  availed  nothing,  however:  Dick  was  not  to 
be  wrought  upon  by  any  such  arguments. 

“Don’t  do  so,  John!”  I turned  my  head  as  the  maiden’s  sweet 
voice  reached  my  ear.  She  was  passing  through  the  gate  into  the 
road,  and,  in  the  next  moment,  had  taken  hold  of  the  lad  and 
drawn  him  away  from  the  animal.  No  strength  was  exerted  in  this ; 
she  took  hold  of  his  arm,  and  he  obeyed  her  wish  as  readily  as  if 
he  had  no  thought  beyond  her, gratification. 

And  now  that  soft  hand  was  laid  gently  on  the  pony’s  neck, 
and  a single  low  word  spoken.  How  instantly  were  the  tense  mus- 
cles relaxed — how  quickly  the  stubborn  air  vanished. 

“Poor  Dick!”  said  the  maiden,  as  she  stroked  his  neck  lightly, 
or  softly  patted  it  with  a child-like  hand. 

“Now,  go  along,  you  provoking  fellow!”  she  added,  in  a half- 
chiding,  yet  affectionate  voice,  as  she  drew  up  the  bridle.  The 
pony  turned  toward  her,  and  rubbed  his  head  against  her  arm  for 
an  instant  or  two;  then,  pricking  up  his  ears,  he  started  off  at  a 
light,  cheerful  trot,  and  went  on  his  way  as  freely  as  if  no  silly 
crotchet  had  ever  entered  his  stubborn  brain. 

“What  a wonderful  power  that  hand  possesses!”  said  I,  speak- 
ing to  my  companion,  as  we  rode  away. 

He  looked  at  me  for  a moment  as  if  my  remark  had  occasioned 
surprise.  Then  a light  came  into  his  countenance,  and  he  said, 
briefly, — 

“She’s  good!  Everybody  and  everything  loves  her.” 

Was  that,  indeed,  the  secret  of  her  power?  Was  the  quality 
of  her  soul  perceived  in  the  impression  of  her  hand,  even  by  brute 
beasts!  The  father’s  explanation  was,  doubtless,  the  true  one. 
Yet,  have  I,  ever  since  wondered,  and  still  do  wonder,  at  the 
potency  which  lay  in  that  maiden’s  magic  touch.  I have  seen 
something  of  the  same  power,  showing  itself  in  the  loving  and  the 
good,  but  never  to  the  extent  as  instanced  in  her,  whom,  for  want 
of  a better  name,  I must  still  call  “Gentle  hand.” 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


845 


The  Ariel  among  the  Shoals. 

The  extraordinary  activity  of  Griffith,  which  communicated 
itself  with  promptitude  to  the  whole  crew,  was  produced  by  a sud- 
den alteration  in  the  weather.  In  place  of  the  well-defined  streak 
along  the  horizon,  that  has  been  already  described,  an  immense 
body  of  misty  light  appeared  to  be  moving  in  with  rapidity  from 
the  ocean,  while  a distinct  but  distant  roaring,  announced  the  sure 
approach  of  the  tempest  that  had  so  long  troubled  the  waters. 
Even  Griffith,  while  thundering  his  orders  through  the  trumpet, 
and  urging  the  men,  by  his  cries,  to  expedition,  would  pause  for 
instants  to  cast  anxious  glances  in  the  direction  of  the  coming 
storm,  and  the  faces  of  the  sailors  who  lay  on  the  yards  were 
turned  instinctively  toward  the  same  quarter  of  the  heavens, 
while  they  knotted  the  reef -points,  or  passed  the  gaskets  that  were 
to  confine  the  unruly  canvas  to  the  prescribed  limits. 

The  pilot  alone,  in  that  confused  and  busy  throng,  where 
voice  rose  above  voice,  and  cry  echoed  cry  in  quick  succession,  ap- 
peared as  if  he  held  no  interest  in  the  important  stake.  With  his 
eyes  steadily  fixed  on  the  approaching  mist,  and  his  arms  folded 
together  in  composure,  he  stood  calmly  awaiting  the  result. 

The  ship  had  fallen  off  with  her  broadside  to  the  sea,  and  was 
become  unmanageable,  and  the  sails  were  already  brought  into  the 
folds  necessary  to  her  security,  when  the  quick  and  heavy  flutter- 
ing of  canvas  was  thrown  across  the  water  with  all  the  gloomy 
and  chilling  sensations  that  such  sounds  produce,  where  darkness 
and  danger  unite  to  appall  the  seaman. 

“The  schooner  has  it !”  cried  Griffith ; “Barnstable  has  held  on, 
like  himself  to  the  last  moment — God  send  that  the  squall  leave 
him  cloth  enough  to  ke&p  him  from  the  shore!” 

“His  sails  are  easily  handled,”  the  commander  observed,  “and 
she  must  be  over  the  principal  danger.  We  are  falling  off  before 
it,  Mr.  Gray;  shall  we  try  a cast  of  the  lead?” 


346 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


The  pilot  turned  from  his  contemplative  posture  and  moved 
slowly  across  the  deck  before  he  returned  any  reply  to  this  question 
— like  a man  who  not  only  felt  that  everything  depended  on  him- 
self, but  that  he  was  equal  to  the  emergency. 

“’Tis  unnecessary,”  he  at  length  said;  “’twould  be  certain  de- 
struction to  be  taken  aback,  and  it  is  difficult  to  say,  within  several 
points,  how  the  wind  may  strike  us.” 

“’Tis  difficult  no  longer,”  cried  Griffith;  “for  here  it  comes,  and 
in  right  earnest!” 

The  rushing  sounds  of  the  wind  were  now,  indeed,  heard  at 
hand,  and  the  words  were  hardly  passed  the  lips  of  the  young  lieu- 
tenant before  the  vessel  bowed  down  heavily  to  one  side,  and  then, 
as  she  began  to  move  through  the  water,  rose  again  majestically  to 
her  upright  position,  as  if  saluting,  like  a courteous  champion,  the 
powerful  antagonist  -with  which  she  was  about  to  contend.  Not 
another  minute  elapsed  before  the  ship  was  throwing  the  waters 
aside  with  a lively  progress,  and,  obedient  to  her  helm,  was  brought 
as  near  to  the  desired  course  as  the  direction  of  the  wind  would 
allow.  The  hurry  and  bustle  on  the  yards  gradually  subsided,  and 
the  men  slowly  descended  to  the  deck,  all  straining  their  eyes  to 
pierce  the  gloom  in  which  they  were  enveloped,  and  some  shaking 
their  heads  in  melancholy  doubt,  afraid  to  express  the  apprehensions 
they  really  entertained.  All  on  board  anxiously  waited  for  the  fury 
of  the  gale ; for  there  were  none  so  ignorant  or  inexperienced, in  that 
gallant  frigate,  as  not  to  know  that  they  as  yet  only  felt  the  infant 
efforts  of  the  wind.  Each  moment,  however,  it  increased  in 
power,  though  so  gradual  was  the  alteration,  that  the  relieved  mari- 
ners began  to  believe  that  all  their  gloomy  forebodings  were  not  to 
be  realized.  During  this  short  interval  of  uncertainty,  no  other 
sounds  were  heard  than  the  whistling  of  the  breeze,  as  it  passed 
quickly  through  the  mass  of  rigging  that  belonged  to  the  vessel, 
and  the  dashing  of  the  spray  that  began  to  fly  from  her  bows  like 
the  foam  of  a cataract. 

“It  blows  fresh,”  cried  Griffith,  who  was  the  first  to  speak  in 
that  moment  of  doubt  and  anxiety;  “but  it  is  no  more  than  a cap- 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


347 


ful  of  wind  after  all.  Give  us  elbow  room  and  the  right  canvas, 
Mr.  Pilot,  and  I’ll  handle  the  ship  like  a gentleman’s  yacht  in  thia 
breeze.” 

“Will  she  stay,  think  ye,  under  this  sail?”  said  the  low  voice 
of  the  stranger. 

“She  will  do  all  that  man  in  reason  can  ask  of  wood  and  iron,” 
returned  the  lieutenant;  “but  the  vessel  don’t  float  the  ocean  that 
will  tack  under  double-reefed  topsails  alone  against  a heavy  sea. 
Help  her  with  the  courses,  pilot,  and  you’ll  see  her  come  round 
like  a dancing-master.  ” 

“Let  us  feel  the  strength  of  the  gale  first,”  returned  the  man 
who  was  called  Mr.  Gray,  moving  from  the  side  of  Griffith  to  the* 
weather  gangway  of  the  vessel,  where  he  stood  in  silence,  looking 
ahead  of  the  ship  with  an  air  of  singular  coolness  and  abstraction. 

All  the  lanterns  had  been  extinguished  on  the  deck  of  the  frig- 
ate, when  her  anchor  was  secured,  and  as  the  first  mist  of  the 
gale  had  passed  over,  it  was  succeeded  by  a faint  light  that  was  a 
good  deal  aided  by  the  glittering  foam  of  the  waters,  which  now 
broke  in  white  curls  around  the  vessel  in  every  direction.  The  land 
could  be  faintly  discerned,  rising  like  a heavy  bank  of  black  fog 
above  the  margin  of  the  waters,  and  was  only  distinguishable  from 
the  heavens  by  its  deeper  gloom  and  obscurity.  The  last  rope  was 
coiled  and  deposited  in  its  proper  place  by  the  seamen,  and  for  sev- 
eral minutes  the  stillness  of  death  pervaded  the  crowded  decks.  It 
was  evident  to  every  one  that  their  ship  was  dashing  at  a prodig- 
ious rate  through  the  waves ; and,  as  she  was  approaching,  with 
such  velocity,  the  quarter  of  the  bay  where  the  shoals  and  dangers 
were  known  to  be  situated,  nothing  but  the  habits  of  the  most  exact 
discipline  could  suppress  the  uneasiness  of  the  officers  and  men 
within  their  own  bosoms.  At  length  the  voice  of  Captain  Munson 
was  heard  calling  to  the  pilot. 

“Shall  I sendahand  into  the  chains,  Mr.  Gray,”  he  said,  “and 
try  our  water? — ” 

“Tack  your  ship,  sir,  tack  your  ship;  I would  see  how  she 
works  before  we  reach  the  point  where  she  must  behave  well,  or  we 

perish.” 


348 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


Griffith  gazed  after  him  in  wonder.,  while  the  pilot  slowly  paced 
the  quarter-deck,  and  then,  rousing  from  his  trance,  gave  forth  the 
cheering  order  that  called  each  man  to  his  station  to  perform  the 
desired  evolution.  The  confident  assurances  which  the  young  offi- 
cer had  given  to  the  pilot  respecting  the  qualities  of  his  vessel,  and 
his  own  ability  to  manage  her,  were  fully  realized  by  the  result. 
The  helm ‘was  no  sooner  put  a-lee,  than  the  huge  ship  bore  up  gal- 
lantly against  the  wind,  and,  dashing  directly  through  the  waves, 
threw  the  foam  high  into  the  air  as  she  looked  boldly  into  the  very 
eye  of  the  wind,  and  then,  yielding  gracefully  to  its  power,  she  fell 
oh  on  the  other  tack  with  her  head  pointed  from  those  dangerous 
shoals  that  she  had  so  recently  approached  with  such  terrifying 
velocity.  The  heavy  yards  swung  round  as  if  they  had  been  vanes 
to  indicate  the  currents  of  the  air,  and  in  a few  moments  the  frigate 
again  moved  with  stately  progress  through  the  water,  leaving  the 
rocks  and  shoals  behind  her  on  one  side  of  the  bay,  but  advancing 
toward  those  that  offered  equal  danger  on  the  other. 

During  this  time,  the  sea  was  becoming  more  agitated,  and  the 
violence  of  the  wind  was  gradually  increasing.  The  latter  no 
longer  whistled  amid  the  cordage  of  the  vessel,  but  it  seemed  to 
howl  surlily  as  it  passed  the  complicated  machinery  that  the  frigate 
obtruded  on  its  path.  An  endless  succession  of  white  surges  rose 
above  the  heavy  billows,  and  the  very  air  was  glittering  with  the 
light  that  was  disengaged  from  the  ocean.  The  ship  yielded  each 
moment  more  and  more  before  the  storm,  and,  in  less  than  half  an 
hour  from  the  time  that  she  had  lifted  her  anchor,  she  was  driven 
along  with  tremendous  fury  by  the  full  power  of  a gale  of  wind. 
Still,  the  hardy  and  experienced  mariners  who  directed  her  move- 
ments, held  her  to  the  course  that  was  necessary  to  their  preserva- 
tion, and  still  Griffith  gave  forth,  .when  directed  by  their  unknown 
pilot,  those  orders  that  turned  her  in  the  narrow  channel  where 
safety  was  alone  to  be  found. 

So  far,  the  performance  of  his  duty  appeared  easy  to  the 
stranger,  and  he  gave  the  required  directions  in  those  still,  calm 
tones  that  formed  so  remarkable  a contrast  to  the  responsibility  of 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


849 


his  situation.  But  when  the  land  was  becoming  dim,  in  distance 
as  well  as  darkness,  and  the  agitated  sea  was  only  to  be  discovered 
as  it  swept  by  them  in  foam,  he  broke  in  upon  the  monotonous 
roaring  of  the  tempest  with  the  sounds  of  his  voice,  seeming  to 
shake  off  his  apathy  and  rouse  himself  to  the  occasion. 

“Now  is  the  time  to  watch  her  closely,  Mr.  Griffith,”  he  cried; 
“here  we  get  the  true  tide  and  the  real  danger.  Place  the  best 
quarter-master  of  your  ship  in  those  chains,  and  let  an  officer  stand 
by  him  and  see  that  he  gives  us  the  right  water.” 

“I  will  take  that  office  on  myself,”  said  the  captain;  “pass  a 
light  into  the  weather  main-chains.” 

“Standby  your  braces!”  exclaimed  the  pilot  with  startling 
quickness.  “Heave  away  that  lead!” 

These  preparations  taught  the  crew  to  expect  the  crisis,  and 
every  officer  and  man  stood  in  fearful  silence  at  his  assigned  station 
awaiting  the  issue  of  the  trial.  Even  the  quarter-master  at  the 
gun  gave  out  his  orders  to  the  men  at  the  wheel  in  deeper  and 
hoarser  tones  than  usual,  as  if  anxious  not  to  disturb  the  quiet  and 
order  of  the  vessel. 

While  this  deep  expectation  pervaded  the  frigate,  the  piercing 
cry  of  the  leadsman,  as  he  called,  “By  the  mark  seven !”  rose  abov<? 
the  tempest,  crossed  over  the  decks,  and  appeared  to  pass  away  to 
leeward,  borne  on  the  blast  like  the  warnings  of  some  water-spirit. 

“’Tis  well,”  returned  the  pilot,  calmly;  “try  it  again.” 

The  short  pause  was  succeeded  by  another  cry,  “And  a half- 
five!” 

“She  shoals!  she  shoals!”  exclaimed  Griffith;  “keep  her  a good 
full.” 

“Ay!  you  must  hold  the  vessel  in  command,  now,”  said  the 
pilot,  with  those  cool  tones  that  are  most  appalling  in  critical  mo- 
ments, because  they  seem  to  denote  most  preparation  and  care. 

The  third  call  of  “By  the  deep  four!”  was  followed  by  a prompt 
direction  from  the  stranger  to  tack. 

Griffith  seemed  to  emulate  the  coolness  of  the  pilot,  in  issuing 
the  necessary  orders  to  execute  this  manceuver. 


850 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


The  vessel  rose  slowly  from  the  inclined  position  into  which 
she  had  been  forced  by  the  tempest,  and  the  sails  were  shaking 
violently,  as  if  to  release  themselves  from  their  confinement  while 
the  ship  stemmed  the  billows,  when  the  well-known  voice  of  the  sail- 
ing-master was  heard  shouting  from  the  forecastle — “Breakers! 
breakers,  dead  ahead!” 

This  appalling  sound  seemed  yet  to  be  lingering  about  the 
ship,  when  a second  voice  cried — “Breakers  on  our  lee-bow!” 

“We  are  in  a bight  of  the  shoals,  Mr.  Gray,”  said  the  com- 
mander. “She  loses  her  way;  perhaps  an  anchor  might  hold  her.” 

“Clear  away  that  best-bower!”  shouted  Griffith  through  his 
trumpet. 

“Hold  on!”  cried  the  pilot,  in  a voice  that  reached  the  very 
hearts  of  all  who  heard  him;  “hold  on  everything.” 

The  young  man  turned  fiercely  to  the  daring  stranger  who 
thus  defied  the  discipline  of  his  vessel,  and  at  once  demanded — 
“Who  is  it  that  dares  to  countermand  my  orders?  Is  it  not  enough 
that  you  run  the  ship  into  danger,  hut  you  must  interfere  to  keep 
her  there?  If  another  word — ” 

“Peace,  Mr.  Griffith,”  interrupted  the  captain,  bending  from  the 
rigging,  his  gray  locks  blowing  about  in  the  wind,  and  adding  a 
look  of  wildness  to  the  haggard  face  that  he  exhibited  by  the  light 
of  his  lantern;  “yield  the  trumpet  to  Mr.  Gray;  he  alone  can 
save  us.” 

Griffith  threw  his  speaking  trumpet  on  the  deck,  and,  as  he 
walked  proudly  away,  muttered  in  bitterness  of  feeling — “Then  all. 
is  lost,  indeed,  and,  among  the  rest,  the  foolish  hopes  with  which  I 
visited  this  coast.” 

There  was,  however,  no  time  for  reply;  the  ship  had  been  rap- 
idly running  into  the  wind,  and,  as  the  efforts  of  the  crew  were 
paralyzed  by  the  contradictory  orders  they  had  heard,  she  gradually 
lost  her  way,  and  in  a few  seconds  all  her  sails  were  taken  aback. 

Before  the  crew  understood  their  situation  the  pilot  had  applied 
the  trumpet  to  his  mouth,  and,  in  a voice  that  rose  above  the  tem- 
pest, he  thundered  forth  his  orders.  Each  command  was  given  dis- 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD, 


351 


tinctly,  and  with  a precision  that  showed  him  to  be  master  of  his 
profession.  The  helm  was  kept  fast,  the  head  yards  swung  up 
heavily  against  the  wind,  and  the  vessel  was  soon  whirling  round 
on  her  heel  with  a retrograde  movement. 

Griffith  was  too  much  of  a seaman  not  to  perceive  that  the 
pilot  had  seized,  with  a perception  almost  intuitive,  the  only 
method  that  promised  to  extricate  the  vessel  from  her  situation. 
He  was  young,  impetuous,  and  proud;  but  he  was  also  generous. 
Forgetting  his  resentment  and  his  mortification,  he  rushed  forward 
among  the  men,  and,  by  his  presence  and  example,  added  certainty 
to  the  experiment.  The  ship  fell  off  slowly  before  the  gale,  and 
bowed  her  yards  nearly  to  the  water,  as  she  felt  the  blast  pouring 
its  fury  on  her  broadside,  while  the  surly  waves  beat  violently 
against  her  stern,  as  if  in  reproach  at  departing  from  her  usual 
manner  of  moving. 

The  voice  of  the  pilot,  however,  was  still  heard,  steady  and 
calm,  and  yet  so  clear  and  high  as  to  reach  every  ear;  and  the 
obedient  seamen  whirled  the  yards  at  his  bidding  in  despite  of  the 
tempest,  as  if  they  handled  the  toys  of  their  childhood.  When 
the  ship  had  fallen  off  dead  before  the  wind,  her  head  sails  were 
shaken,  her  after-yards  trimmed,  and  her  helm  shifted  before  she 
had  time  to  run  upon  the  danger  that  had  threatened,  as  well  to 
leeward  as  to  windward.  The  beautiful  fabric,  obedient  to  her  gov- 
ernment, threw  her  bows  up  gracefully  toward  the  wind  again,  and, 
as  her  sails  were  trimmed,  moved  out  from  amongst  the  dangerous 
shoals  in  which  she  had  been  embayed,  as  steadily  and  swiftly  as 
she  had  approached  them. 

A moment  of  breathless  astonishment  succeeded  the  accom- 
plishment of  this  nice  manoeuver,  but  there  was  no  time  for  the 
usual  expressions  of  surprise.  The  stranger  still  held  the  trumpet, 
and  continued  to  lift  his  voice  amid  the  howlings  of  the  blast, 
whenever  prudence  or  skill  directed  any  change  in  the  management 
of  the  ship.  For  an  hour  longer,  there  was  a fearful  struggle  for 
their  preservation,  the  channel  becoming  at  each  step  more  com- 
plicated, and  the  shoals  thickening  around  the  mariners  on  every 


852 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


side.  The  lead  was  cast  rapidly,  and  the  quick  eye  of  the  pilot 
seemed  to  pierce  the  darkness  with  a keenness  of  vision  that  exceeded 
human  power.  It  was  apparent  to  all  in  the  vessel,  that  they  were 
under  the  guidance  of  one  who  understood  the  navigation  thor- 
oughly, and  their  exertions  kept  pace  with  their  reviving  confidence. 
Again  and  again  the  frigate  appeared  to  be  rushing  blindly  on 
shoals,  where  the  sea  was  covered  with  foam,  and  where  destruc- 
tion would  have  been  as  sudden  as  it  was  certain,  when  the  clear 
voice  of  the  stranger  was  heard  warning  them  of  the  danger,  and 
inciting  them  to  their  duty.  The  vessel  was  implicitly  yielded  to 
his  government,  and  during  those  anxious  moments,  when  she  was 
dashing  the  waters  aside,  throwing  the  spray  over  her  enormous 
yards,  each  ear  would  listen  eagerly  for  those  sounds  that  had  ob- 
tained a command  over  the  crew,  that  can  only  be  acquired,  under 
such  circumstances,  by  great  steadiness  and  consummate  skill. 
The  ship  was  recovering  from  the  inaction  of  changing  her  course 
in  one  of  those  critical  tacks  that  she  had  made  so  often,  when  the 
pilot  for  the  first  time  addressed  the  commander  of  the  frigate,  who 
still  continued  to  superintend  the  all-important  duty  of  the  leads- 
man. 

“Now  is  the  pinch, ”he  said;  “and  if  the  ship  behaves  well,  we 
are  safe — but  if  otherwise,  all  we  have  yet  done  will  be  useless.” 

The  veteran  seaman  whom  he  addressed  left  the  chains  at  this 
portentous  notice,  and,  calling  to  his  first  lieutenant,  required  of 
the  stranger  an  explanation  of  his  warning. 

“See  you  yon  light  on  the  southern  headland?”  returned  the 
pilot;  “you  may  know  it  from  the  star  near  it  by  its  sinking,  at 
times,  in  the  ocean.  Now  observe  the  hummock,  a little  north  of 
it,  looking  like  a shadow  in  the  horizon — ’tis  a hill  far  inland.  If 
we  keep  that  light  open  from  the  hill,  we  shall  do  well — but  if  not, 
we  surely  go  to  pieces.” 

“Let  us  tack  again!”  exclaimed  the  lieutenant. 

The  pilot  shook  his  head,  as  he  replied — “There  is  no  more 
tacking  or  box-hauling  to  be  done  to-night.  We  have  barely  room 
to  pass  out  of  the  shoals  on  this  course,  and  if  we  can  weather  the 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


353 


‘Devil’s  Grip,’  we  clear  their  outermost  point — but  if  not,  as  I said 
before,  there  is  but  an  alternative.” 

“If  we  had  beaten  out  the  way  we  entered,”  exclaimed  Griffith, 
“we  should  have  done  well.” 

“Say,  also,  if  the  tide  would  have  let  us  do  so,”  returned  the 
pilot  calmly.  “Gentlemen,  we  must  be  prompt;  we  have  but  a 
mile  to  go,  and  the  ship  appears  to  fly.  That  topsail  is  not  enough 
to  keep  her  up  to  the  wind;  we  want  both  jib  and  mainsail.” 

“ ’Tis  a perilous  thing  to  loosen  canvas  in  such  a tempest!  ” 
observed  the  doubtful  captain. 

“It  must  be  done,”  returned  the  collected  stranger;  ‘we  perish 
without, — see ! the  light  already  touches  the  edge  of  the  hummock ; 
the  sea  casts  us  to  leeward!  ” 

“It  shall  be  done!”  cried  Griffith,  seizing  the  trumpet  from 
the  hand  of  the  pilot. 

The  orders  of  the  lieutenant  were  executed  almost  as  soon  as 
issued,  and,  everything  being  ready,  the  enormous  folds  of  the 
mainsail  were  trusted  loose  to  the  blast.  There  was  an  instant 
when  the  result  was  doubtful;  the  tremendous  threshing  of  the 
heavy  sails  seeming  to  bid  defiance  to  all  restraint,  shaking  the 
ship  to  her  center;  but  art  and  strength  prevailed,  and  gradually 
the  canvas  was  distended,  and,  bellying  as  it  filled,  was  drawn 
down  to  its  usual  place  by  the  power  of  a hundred  men.  The  ves- 
sel yielded  to  this  immense  addition  of  force,  and  bowed  before  it 
like  a reed  bending  to  a breeze.  But  the  success  of  the  measure 
was  announced  by  a joyful  cry  from  the  stranger,  that  seemed  to 
hurst  from  his  inmost  soul. 

“She  feels  it!  she  springs  her  luff!  observe,”  he  said, “the  light 
opens  from  the  hummock  already;  if  she  will  only  bear  her  can- 
vas, we  shall  go  clear!  ” 

A report  like  that  of  a cannon  interrupted  his  exclamation, 
and  something  resembling  a white  cloud  was  seen  drifting  before 
the  wind  from  the  head  of  the  ship,  till  it  was  driven  into  the 
gloom  far  to  the  leeward. 

Tis  the  jib  blown  from  the  holt-ropes,”  said  the  commander 

23 


354 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


of  the  frigate.  “ This  is  no  time  to  spread  light  duck, — but  the 
mainsail  may  stand  it  yet.” 

“ The  said  would  laugh  at  a tornado,”  returned  the  lieutenant; 
“ hut  that  mast  springs  like  a piece  of  steel.” 

“ Silence,  all!  ” cried  the  pdot.  “ Now,  gentlemen,  we  shall 
soon  know  our  fate.  Let  her  luff, — luff  you  can !” 

This  warning  effectually  closed  all  discourse,  and  the  hardy 
mariners,  knowing  that  they  had  already  done  all  in  the  power  of 
man  to  insure  their  safety,  stood  in  breathless  anxiety,  awaiting 
the  result.  At  a short  distance  ahead  of  them,  the  whole  ocean 
was  white  with  foam,  and  the  waves,  instead  of  rolling  on  in  regu- 
lar succession,  appeared  to  he  tossing  about  in  mad  gambols.  A 
single  streak  of  dark  billows,  not  half  a cable’s  length  in  width, 
could  he  discerned  running  into  this  chaos  of  water;  but  it  was 
soon  lost  to  the  eye  amid  the  confusion  of  the  disturbed  element. 
Along  this  narrcw  path  the  vessel  moved  more  heavily  than  before, 
being  brought  so  near  the  wind  as  to  keep  her  sails  touching.  The 
pilot  silently  proceeded  to  the  wheel,  and  with  his  own  hands 
he  undertook  the  steerage  of  the  ship.  No  noise  proceeded  from 
the  frigate  to  interrupt  the  horrid  tumult  of  the  ocean,  and  she 
entered  the  channel  among  the  breakers  with  the  silence  of  a des- 
perate calmness.  Twenty  times,  as  the  foam  rolled  away  to 
leeward,  the  crew  were  on  the  eve  of  uttering  their  joy,  as  they 
supposed  the  vessel  past  the  danger;  but  breaker  after  breaker 
would  still  rise  before  them,  following  each  other  into  the  general 
mass  to  check  their  exultation.  Occasionally  the  fluttering  of  the 
sails  would  be  heard;  and  when  the  looks  of  the  startled  seamen 
were  turned  to  the  wheel,  they  beheld  the  stranger  grasping  its 
spokes,  with  his  quick  eye  glancing  from  the  water  to  the  canvas. 
At  length  the  ship  reached  a point  where  she  appeared  to  be  rush- 
ing directly  into  the  jaws  of  destruction,  when  mddeAly  her  course 
was  changed,  and  her  head  receded  rapidly  from  the  wind.  At  the 
game  instant  the  voice  of  the  pilot  was  heard  shouting, — 

“ Square  away  the  yards ! — in  mainsail ! ” 

A general  burst  from  the  crew  echoed,  “ Square  away  the 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


355 


yards ! ” and  quick  as  thought  the  frigate  was  seen  gliding  along 
the  channel  before  the  wind.  The  eye  had  hardly  time  to  dwell  on 
the  foam,  which  seemed  like  clouds  driving  in  the  heavens,  anc| 
directly  the  gallant  vessel  issued  from  her  perils,  and  rose  and  fell 
on  the  heavy  waves  of  the  open  sea. 


The  Bald-headed  Man. 

The  other  day  a lady,  accompanied  by  her  son,  a very  small 
boy,  boarded  a train  at  Little  Rock.  The  woman  had  a care-worn 
expression  hanging  over  her  face  like  a tattered  veil,  and  many  ol 
the  rapid  questions  asked  by  the  boy  were  answered  by  unconscious 
sighs. 

“Ma,”  said  the  boy,  “that  man’s  like  a baby,  ain’t  he?”  point 
ing  to  a bald-headed  man  sitting  just  in  front  of  them. 

“Hush!  ” 

“Why  must  I hush?  ” 

After  a few  moments’  silence:  “Ma,  what’s  the  matter  with 
that  man’s  head?  ” 

“Hush,  I tell  you.  He’s  bald.”  ^ 

“What’s  bald?  ” 

“His  head  hasn’t  got  any  hair  on  it.” 

“Hid  it  come  off?  ” 

“I  guess  so.” 

“Will  mine  come  off?  ” 

“Some  time,  may  be.” 

“Then  I’ll  be  bald,  won’t  I?  ” 

“Yes.” 

“Will  you  care?” 

“Don’t  ask  so  many  questions.” 

After  another  silence„the  boy  exclaimed:  “Ma,  look  at  that  fly 
on  that  man’s  head.  ” 

“If  you  don’t  hush,  I’ll  whip  you  when  we  get  home.” 


356 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


“Look!  There’s  another  fly.  Look  at  ’em  fight;  look  at 
’em!  ” 

“Madam,”  said  the  man,  putting  aside  a newspaper  and  look 
ing  around,  “what’s  the  matter  with  that  young  hyena?” 

The  woman  blushed,  stammered  out  something,  and  attempted 
to  smooth  back  the  boy’s  hair. 

“One  fly,  two  flies,  three  flies,”  said  the  boy,  innocently,  fol- 
lowing with  his  eyes  a basket  of  oranges  carried  by  a newsboy. 

“Here,  you  young  hedgehog,”  saic^  the  bald-headed  man,  “if 
you  don’t  hush,  I’ll  have  the  conductor  put  you  off  the  train.” 

The  poor  woman,  not  knowing  what  else  to  do,  boxed  the 
boy’s  ears,  and  then  gave  him  an  orange  to  keep  him  from  crying. 
“Ma,  have  I got  red  marks  on  my  head?  ” 

“I’ll  whip  you  again,  if  you  don’t  hush.” 

“Mister,”  said  the  boy,  after  a short  silence,  “does  it  hurt  to 
be  bald-headed?  ” 

“Youngster,”  said  the  man,  “if  you’ll  keep  quiet,  I’ll  give  you 
a quarter.”  * 

The  boy  promised,  and  the  money  was  paid  over. 

The  man  took  up  his  paper,  and  resumed  his  reading. 

“Tms  is  my  bald-headed  money,”  said  the  boy.  “When  I get 
bald-headed,  I’m  goin’  to  give  boys  money.  Mister,  have  all  bald- 
lie  Jded  men  got  money?  ” 

The  annoyed  man  threw  down  his  paper,  arose,  and  exclaimed: 
“Madam,  hereafter  when  you  travel,  leave  that  young  gorilla  at 
home.  Hitherto,  I always  thought  that  the  old  prophet  was  very 
cruel  for  calling  the  bears  to  kill  the  children  for  making  sport  of 
his  head,  but  now  I am  forced  to  believe  that  he  did  a Christian 
act.  If  your  boy  had  been  in  the  crowd,  he  would  have  died  first. 
If  I can’t  find  another  seat  on  this  train,  I’ll  ride  on  the  cow- 
catcher rather  than  remain  here.” 

“The  bald-headed  man  is  gone,”  said  the  boy;  and  as  the 
woman  leaned  back  a tired  sigh  escaped  from  her  lips. 


TREaSCEES  from  the  prose  world. 


357 


An  Evening  Walk. in  Virginia. 

In  truth,  the  little,  solitary  nook  into  which  I am  just  now 
thrown,  bears  an  aspect  so  interesting,  that  it  is  calculated  to  call 
up  the  most  touchingly  pleasing  exertions  in  the  minds  of  those 
who  love  to  indulge  in  the  contemplation  of  beautiful  scenes.  We 
are  the  sons  of  earth,  and  the  indissoluble  kindred  between  nat- 
ure and  man  is  demonstrated  by  our  sense  of  her  beauties.  I 
shall  not  soon  forget  last  evening,  which  Oliver  and  myself  spent 
at  this  place.  It  was  such  as  cari  never  be  described, — I will 
therefore  not  attempt  it;  but  it  was  still  as  the  sleep  of  innocence, 
pure  as  ether,  and  bright  as  immortality.  Having  traveled  only 
fourteen  miles  that  day,  I did  not  feel  as  tired  as  usual,  and,  after 
supper,  strolled  out  alone  along  the  windings  of  a little  stream 
about  twenty  yards  wide,  that  skirts  a narrow  strip  of  green 
meadows,  between  the  brook  and  the  high  mountain  at  a little  dis- 
tance. 

You  will  confess  my  landscapes  are  well  watered,  for  every 
one  has  a river.  But  such  is  the  case  in  this  region,  where  all  the 
passes  of  the  mountains  are  made  by  little  rivers,  that  in  process 
of  time  have  labored  through,  and  left  a space  for  a road  on  their 
banks.  If  nature  will  do  these  things,  I can’t  help  it, — not  I.  In 
the  course  of  the  ramble,  the  moon  rose  over  the  mountain  to  the 
eastward,  which,  being  just  by,  seemed  to  bring  the  planet  equally 
near;  and  the  bright  eyes  of  the  stars  began  to  glisten,  as  if  weep- 
ing the  dews  of  evening.  I knew  not  the  name  of  one  single  star. 
But  what  of  that?  It  is  not  necessary  to  be  an  astronomer  to 
contemplate  with  sublime  emotions  tjie  glories  of  the  sky  at  night, 
and  the  countless  wonders  of  the  universe. 

These  earthly  godfathers  of  heaven’s  lights, 

That  give  a name  to  every  fixed  star, 

Have  no  more  profit  of  their  living  nights, 

Than  those  that  walk  and  wot  not  what  they  are. 


358 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


Men  may  be  too  wise  to  wonder  at  anything,  as  they  may  be 
too  ignorant  to  see  anything  without  wondering. 

There  is  reason,  also,  to  believe  that  astronomers  may  be 
sometimes  so  taken  up  with  measuring  the  distance  and  magnitude 
of  the  stars,  as  to  lose,  in  the  intense  minuteness  of  calculation, 
that  noble  expansion  of  feeling  and  intellect  combined,  which  lifts 
from  nature  up  to  its  great  First  Cause.  As  respects  myself,  1 
know  no  more  of  the  planets  than  the  man  in  the  moon.  I only 
contemplate  them  as  unapproachable,  unextinguishable  fires,  glit- 
tering afar  off,  in  those  azure  fields  whose  beauty  and  splendor 
have  pointed  them  out  as  the  abode  of  the  Divinity;  as  such,  they 
form  bright  links  in  the  chain  of  thought  that  leads  directly  to  a 
contemplation  of  the  Maker  of  heaven  and  earth.  Nature  is,  in- 
deed, the  only  temple  worthy  of  the  Deity.  There  is  a mute 
eloquence  in  her  smile;  a majestic  severity  in  her  frown;  a divine 
charm  in  her  harmony ; a speechless  energy  in  her  silence ; a voice 
in  her  thunders,  that  no  reflecting  being  can  resist.  It  is  in  such 
scenes  and  seasons,  that  the  heart  is  deepest  smitten  with  the 
power  and  goodness  of  Providence,  and  that  the  soul  demonstrates 
its  capacity  for  maintaining  an  existence  independent  of  matter, 
by  abstracting  itself  from  the  body,  and  expatiating  alone  in  the 
boundless  regions  of  the  past  and  the  future. 

As  I continued  strolling  forward,  there  gradually  came  a per- 
fect calm, — and  even  the  aspen- tree  whispered  no  more.  But  it 
was  not  the  death-like  calm  of  a Winter’s  night,  when  the  north- 
west wind  grows  quiet,  and  the  frosts  begin  in  silence  to  forge  fet- 
ters for  the  running  brooks,  and  the  gentle  current  of  life  that 
flows  through  the  veins  of  the  forest.  The  voice  of  man  and  beast 
was  indeed  unheard ; but  the  river  murmured,  and  the  insects 
chirped  in  the  mild  Summer  evening.  There  is  something  sepul- 
chral in  the  repose  of  a Winter  night ; but  in  the  genial  seasons  of 
the  year,  though  the  night  is  the  emblem  of  repose,  it  is  the  repose 
ftf  the  couch,  not  of  the  tomb;  nature  still  breathes  in  the  buzz 
of  insects,  the  whisperings  of  the  forests,  and  the  murmur  of  the 
running  brooks.  We  know  she  will  awake  in  the  m orning,  with 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


359 


her  smiles,  her  bloom,  her  zephyrs,  and  warbling  birds.  “In  such 
a night  as  this,”  if  a man  loves  any  human  being  in  this  wide 
world,  he  will  find  it  out,  for  there  will  his  thoughts  first  center. 
If  he  has  in  store  any  sweet,  or  bitter,  or  bitter-sweet  recollections, 
which  are  lost  in  the  bustle  of  the  world,  they  will  come  without 
being  called.  If,  in  his  boyish  days  he  wrestled,  and  wrangled, 
and  rambled  with,  yet  loved,  some  chubby  boy,  he  will  remember 
the  days  of  his  childhood,  its  companions,  cares,  and  pleasures. 
If,  in  his  days  of  romance,  he  used  to  walk  of  evenings  with  some 
blue-eyed,  musing,  melancholy  maid,  whom  the  ever-rolling  wave 
of  life  dashed  away  from  him  forever,  he  will  recall  her  voice,  her 
eye,  and  her  form.  If  any  heavy  and  severe  disaster  has  fallen 
on  his  riper  manhood,  and  turned  the  future  into  a gloomy  and 
unpromising  wilderness,  he  will  feel  it  bitterly  at  such  a time.  Or, 
if  it  chance  that  he  is  grown  an  old  man,  and  lived  to  see  all  that 
owned  his  blood,  or  shared  his  affections,  struck  down  to  the  earth 
like  dead  leaves  in  Autumn,  in  such  a night  he  will  call  their  dear 
shades  around,  and  wish  himself  a shadow. 


360 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


GEORGE  BANCROFT. 


EORGE  BANCROFT,  the  eminent  American  historian, 


was  born  at  Worcester,  Massachusetts,  October  3, 1800, 


and  graduated  at  Harvard  College  in  his  seventeenth 
year.  “ His  college  course  was  but  the  beginning  of  his  ed- 
ucation. He  sailed  to  Europe,  and  pursued  a great  variety 


at  Gottingen,  Berlin,  Heidelberg,  Paris,  and  in  several  Italian 
cities,  forming  acquaintances,  also,  with  many  of  the  most 
famous  scholars  and  savants .”  Thus  his  mind  was  richly 
furnished  with  the  treasures  of  ancient  literature,  together 
with  the  modern  metaphysical  culture  of  the  German  uni- 
versities. Upon  his  return  to  America,  Mr.  Bancroft  was 
appointed  Tutor  of  Greek  at  Harvard.  He  was  also  con- 
nected with  the  Round  Hill  Classical  School  at  Northampton, 
for  a short  time. 

Bancroft’s  literary  record  is  an  important  one.  It  com- 
menced while  he  was  abroad,  by  the  philosophical  summaries 
of  Roman  history  and  policy,  and  of  the  literature  of  Ger- 
many, which  he  published  in  America  shortly  after  his  return. 
“A  volume  of  poems,  published  at  Boston  in  1823,  witnesses 
to  his  poetical  enthusiasm  for  the  arts  and  nature,  as  he 
traversed  the  ruins  of  Italy  and  the  sublime  scenery  of  Switz- 
erland.” Before  his  twenty-fourth  year,  he  had  written  a 
series  of  poetical  translations  of  some  of  the  chief  minor 


of  studies  for  five  years  under  the  most  eminent  professors, 


GEORGE  BANCROFT. 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


361 


poems  of  Schiller,  Goethe,  and  other  German  authors.  These 
translations  were  first  published  in  the  “ North  American  Re- 
view, ” and  afterward  in  Bancroft’s  Collection  of  Miscellanies. 

The  great  work  of  Bancroft’s  life  is  his  History  of  the 
United.  States  from,  the  Discovery  of  the  American  Continent, 
the  first  volume  of  which  appeared  in  1834.  His  Coloniza- 
tion of  the  United  States,  published  in  1834,  and  History  of 
the  Devolution,  published  in  1852,  were  included  in  his  His- 
tory of  the  United  States.  Up  to  the  present,  twelve  volumes 
°[  Ins  history  have  been  issued,  bringing  the  work  down  to 
lvS9.  In  the  preparation  of  his  work,  he  was  greatly  aided 
by  the  free  access  to  the  State  Paper  Office  of  Great  Britain, 
Prance  and  other  European  states.  In  1855  Bancroft  published 

a volume  of  Literary  and  Historical  Miscellanies.  While  this 
work  is  full  of  merit,  his  history  remains  the  greatest  work 

of  his  life,  and  it  proves  him  to  be  the  greatest  of  American 
historians. 

. . Bancroft  s political  record  is  also  an  important  part  of 
ms  life  work.  In  1838  President  Van  Buren  appointed  him 
to  the  collectorship  of  the  port  of  Boston.  In  1845  Presi- 
dent  Pdk  invited  him  to  a seat  in  the  Cabinet  as  Secretary 
of  the  Navy.  His  customary  energy  and  efficiency  made  him 
a valuable  member  of  the  Cabinet.  In  1846  Bancroft  was 
appointed  Minister  Plenipotentiary  to  Great  Britain  This 
distinguished  position  he  held  till  1849,  when  he  returned  to 
the  United  States  and  became  a resident  of  the  city  of  New 
York.  In  1867  he  was  appointed  Minister  to  Berlin,  a no- 
sition  he  held  for  several  years. 


362 


Tbeasubes  pbom  the  pbose  woblb. 


The  Aborigines  of  America. 

On  the  surrender  of  Acadia  to  England,  the  lakes,  the  rivulets, 
the  granite  ledges,  of  Cape  Breton, — of  which  the  irregular  outline 
is  guarded  by  reefs  of  rocks,  and  notched  and  almost  rent  asunder 
by  the  constant  action  of  the  sea, — were  immediately  occupied  as 
a province  of  France;  and,  in  1714,  fugitives  from  Newfoundland 
and  Acadia  built  their  huts  along  its  coasts,  wherever  safe  inlets 
invited  fishermen  to  spread  their  flakes,  and  the  soil  to  plant  fields 
and  gardens.  In  a few  years,  the  fortifications  of  Louisburg 
began  to  rise, — the  key  to  the  St.  Lawrence,  the  bulwark  of  the 
French  fisheries,  and  of  French  commerce  in  North  America. 
From  Cape  Breton,  the  dominion  of  Louis  XIV  extended  up  the 
St.  Lawrence  to  Lake  Superior,  and  from  that  lake,  through  the 
whole  course  of  the  Mississippi,  to  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  and  the 
Bay  of  Mobile.  Just  beyond  that  bay  began  the  posts  of  the 
Spaniards,  which  continued  round  the  shores  of  Florida  to  the 
fortress  of  St.  Augustine.  The  English  colonies  skirted  the 
Atlantic,  extending  from  Florida  to  the  eastern  verge  of  Nova 
Scotia.  Thus,  if  on  the  east  the  Strait  of  Canso  divided  France 
and  England,  if  on  the  south  a narrow  range  of  forests  intervened 
between  England  and  Spain,  everywhere  else  the  colonies  of  the 
rival  nations  were  separated  from  each  other  by  tribes  of  the 
natives.  The  Europeans  had  established  a wide  circle  of  planta- 
tions, or,  at  least,  of  posts;  they  had  encompassed  the  aborigines 
that  dwelt  east  of  the  Mississippi;  and,  however  eager  might  now 
be  the  passion  of  the  intruders  for  carving  their  emblems  on  trees, 
and  designating  their  lines  of  anticipated  empire  on  maps,  their 
respective  settlements  were  kept  asunder  by  an  unexplored  wilder- 
ness, of  which  savages  were  the  occupants. 

The  great  strife  of  France  and  England  for  American  terri- 
tory could  not  but  involve  the  ancient  possessors  of  the  continent 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


363 


in  a series  of  conflicts,  wliicli  have,  at  last,  banished  the  Indian 
tribes  from  the  earlier  limits  of  our  republic.  The  picture  of  the 
unequal  contest  inspires  a compassion  that  is  honorable  to  human- 
ity. The  weak  demand  sympathy.  If  a melancholy  interest 
attaches  to  the  fall  of  a hero  who  is  overpowered  by  superior  force, 
shall  we  not  drop  a tear  at  the  fate  of  nations,  whose  defeat  fore- 
boded the  exile , if  it  did  not,  indeed,  shadow  forth  the  decline  and 
ultimate  extinction,  of  a race? 

The  earliest  books  on  America  contained  tales  as  wild  as 
fancy  could  invent  or  credulity  repeat.  The  land  was  peopled  with 
pygmies  and  with  giants ; the  tropical  forests  were  said  to  conceal 
tribes  of  negroes;  and  tenants  of  the  hyperborean  regions  were 
white,  like  the  polar  bear  or  the  ermine.  Jacques  Cartier  had 
heard  of  a nation  that  did  not  eat;  and  the  pedant  Lafitau  be- 
lieved, if  not  in  a race  of  headless  men,  at  least,  that  there  was  a 
nation  of  men  with  the  head  not  rising  above  the  shoulders. 

The  first  aspect  of  the  original  inhabitants  of  the  United 
States  was  uniform.  Between  the  Indians  of  Florida  and  Canada, 
the  difference  was  scarcely  perceptible.  Their  manners  and  insti- 
tutions, as  well  as  their  organization,  had  a common  physiognomy; 
and,  before  their  languages  began  to  be  known,  there  was  no  safe 
method  of  grouping  the  nations  into  families.  But  when  the  vast 
variety  of  dialects  came  to  be  compared,  there  were  found,  east  ov 
the  Mississippi,  not  more  than  eight  radically  distinct  languages, 
of  which  five  still  constitute  the  speech  of  powerful  communities, 
and  three  are  known  only  as  memorials  of  tribes  that  have  almost 
disappeared  from  the  earth. 

The  study  of  the  structure  of  the  dialects  of  the  red  men 
sheds  light  on  the  inquiry  into  their  condition.  Language  is  their 
oldest  monument,  and  the  record  and  image  of  their  experience. 
No  savage  horde  has  been  caught  with  it  in  a state  of  chaos,  or  as 
if  just  emerging  from  the  rudeness  of  undistinguishable  sounds. 
No  American  language  bears  marks  of  being  an  arbitrary  aggrega- 
tion of  separate  parts ; but  each  is  possessed  of  an  entire  organi- 
zation, having  unity  of  character,  and  controlled  by  exact  rules. 


364 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


Each  appears,  not  as  a slow  formation  by  painful  processes  of 
invention,  but  as  a perfect  whole,  springing  directly  from  the 
powers  of  man.  A savage  physiognomy  is  imprinted  on  the  dia- 
lect of  the  dweller  in  the  wilderness ; but  each  dialect  is  still  not 
only  free  from  confusion,  but  is  almost  absolutely  free  from  irregu- 
larities, and  is  pervaded  and  governed  by  undeviating  laws.  As 
the  bee  builds  his  cells  regularly,  yet  without  the  recognition  of 
the  rules  of  geometry,  so  the  unreflecting  savage,  in  the  use  of 
words,  had  rule  and  method  and  completeness.  His  speech,  like 
everything  else,  underwent  change ; but  human  pride  errs  in  believ- 
ing that  the  art  of  cultivated  man  was  needed  to  resolve  it  into  its 
elements,  and  give  to  it  new  forms,  before  it  could  fulfill  its  office. 
Each  American  language  was  competent  of  itself,  without  improve- 
ment from  scholars,  to  exemplify  every  rule  of  the  logician,  and 
give  utterance  to  every  passion.  Each  dialect  that  has  been 
analyzed  has  been  found  to  be  rich  in  derivatives  and  compounds, 
in  combinations  and  forms.  As  certainly  as  every  plant  which  draws 
juices  from  the  earth  has  roots  and  sap  vessels,  bark  and  leaves, 
so  certainly  each  language  has  its  complete  organization, — includ- 
ing the  same  parts  of  speech,  though  some  of  them  may  lie 
concealed  in  mutual  coalitions.  Human  consciousness  and  human 
speech  exist  everywhere,  indissolubly  united.  A tribe  has  no  more 
been  found  without  an  organized  language,  than  without  eyesight 
or  memory. 

As  the  languages  of  the  American  tribes  were  limited  by  the 
material  world,  so,  in  private  life,  the  senses  held  dominion.  The 
passion  of  the  savage  was  liberty;  he  demanded  license  to  gratify 
his  animal  instincts.  To  act  for  himself,  to  follow  the  propensi- 
ties of  his  nature,  seemed  his  system  of  morals.  The  supremacy 
of  conscience,  the  rights  of  reason,  were  not  subjects  of  reflection 
to  those  who  had  no  name  for  continence.  The  idea  of  chastity, 
as  a social  duty,  was  but  feebly  developed  among  them,  and  the 
observer  of  their  customs  would,  at  first,  believe  them  to  have 
been  ignorant  of  restraint.  If  “ the  kindly  flames  of  nature 
burned  in  wild  humanity,”  their  love  never  became  a frenzy  or  a 
devotion ; for  indulgence  destroyed  its  energy^jmdjt^^ 


TREASURES  from  the  erose  world, 


365 


And  yet  no  nation  has  ever  been  found  without  some  practical 
confession  of  the  duty  of  self-denial.  “ Gfod  hath  planted  in  the 
hearts  of  the  wildest  of  the  sons  of  men  a high  and  honorable 
esteem  of  the  marriage,  insomuch  that  they  universally  submit 
unto  it,  and  hold  its  violation  abominable.”  Neither  might  mar- 
riages be  contracted  between  kindred  of  near  degree;  the  Iroquois 
might  choose  a wife  of  the  same  tribe  with  himself,  but  not  of  the 
same  cabin ; the  Algonquin  must  look  beyond  those  who  used  the 
same  totem,  or  family  symbol ; the  Cherokee  would  marry  at  once 
a mother  and  her  daughter,  but  would  never  marry  his  own  imme- 
diate kindred. 

On  forming  an  engagement,  the  bridegroom,  or,  if  he  were 
poor,  his  friends  and  neighbors,  made  a present  to  the  bride’s 
father,  of  whom  no  dowry  was  expected.  The  acceptance  of  the 
presents  perfected  the  contract;  the  wife  was  purchased;  and,  for 
*a  season, at  least,  the  husband,  surrendering  his  gains  as  a hunter 
to  her  family,  had  a home  in  her  father’s  lodge. 

But,  even  in  marriage,  the  Indian  abhorred  constraint;  and, 
from  Florida  to  the  St.  Lawrence,  polygamy  was  permitted,  though 
at  the  north  it  was  not  common.  In  a happy  union,  affection  was 
fostered  and  preserved ; and  the  wilderness  could  show  wigwams 
where  “couples  had  lived  together  thirty,  forty  years.”  Yet  love 
did  not  always  light  his  happiest  torch  at  the  nuptials  of  the  chil- 
dren of  nature,  and  marriage  among  the  forests  had  its  sorrows 
and  its  crimes.  The  infidelities  of  the  husband  sometimes  drove 
the  helpless  wife  to  suicide ; the  faithless  wife  had  no  protector ; 
her  husband  insulted  or  disfigured  her  at  will;  and  death  for 
adultery  was  unrevenged.  Divorce,  also,  was  permitted,  even  for 
occasions  besides  adultery;  it  took  place  without  formality,  by  a 
simple  separation  or  desertion,  and,  where  there  was  no  offspring, 
was  of  easy  occurrence.  Children  were  the  strongest  bond;  for,  if 
the  mother  was  discarded,  it  was  an  unwritten  law  of  the  red  man 
that  she  should  herself  retain  those  whom  she  had  borne  or 
nursed. 

On  quitting  the  cradle,  the  children  are  left  nearly  naked  in 


366 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


the  cabin,  to  grow  hardy,  and  learn  the  use  of  their  limbs.  Juve- 
nile sports  are  the  same  everywhere;  children  invent  them  for 
themselves;  and  the  traveler,  who  finds  everywhere  in  the  wide 
world  the  same  games,  may  rightly  infer,  that  the  Father  of  the 
great  human  family  himself  instructs  the  innocence  of  childhood 
in  its  amusements.  There  is  no  domestic  government ; the  young 
do  as  they  will.  They  are  never  earnestly  reproved,  injured  or 
beaten;  a dash  of  cold  water  in  the  face  is  their  heaviest  punish- 
ment. If  they  assist  in  the  labors  of  the  household,  it  is  as  a 
pastime,  not  as  a charge.  Yet  they  show  respect  to  the  chiefs, 
and  defer  with  docility  to  those  of  their  cabin.  The  attachment 
of  savages  to  their  offspring  is  extreme;  and  they  cannot  bear 
separation  from  them.  Hence  every  attempt  at  founding  schools 
for  their  children  was  a failure ; a missionary  would  gather  a.  little 
flock  about  him,  and  of  a sudden,  writes  Le  Jeune,  “my  birds  flew 
away.”  From  their  insufficient  and  irregular  supplies  of  clothing 
and  food,  they  learn  to  endure  hunger  and  rigorous  seasons ; of 
themselves,  they  become  fleet  of  foot,  and  skillful  in  swimming; 
their  courage  is  nursed  by  tales  respecting  their  ancestors,  till  they 
burn  with  a love  of  glory  to  be  acquired  by  valor  and  address.  So 
soon  as  the  child  can  grasp  the  bow  and  arrow,  they  are  in  his 
hand;  and,  as  there  was  joy  in  the  wigwam  at  his  birth,  and  his 
first  cutting  of  a tooth,  so  a festival  is  kept  for  his  first  success  in 
the  chase.  The  Indian  young  man  is  educated  in  the  school  of 
nature.  The  influences  by  which  he  is  surrounded  nurse  within 
him  the  passion  for  war;  as  he  grows  up,  he,  in  his  turn,  takes  up 
the  war-song,  of  which  the  echoes  never  die  away  on  the  boundless 
plains  of  the  West;  he  travels  the  war-path  in  search  of  an 
encounter  with  an  enemy,  that  he,  too,  at  the  great  war-dance  and 
feast  of  his  band,  may  boast  of  his  exploits;  may  enumerate  his 
gallant  deeds  by  the  envied  feathers  of  the  war-eagle  that  decorate 
his  hair;  and  may  keep  the  record  of  his  wounds  by  shining  marks 
of  vermilion  on  his  skin. 

The  savages  are  proud  of  idleness.  At  home,  they  do  little 
but  cross  their  arms  and  sit  listlessly;  or  engage  in  games  of 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


367 


chance,  hazarding  all  their  possessions  on  the  result;  or  meet  in 
council;  or  sing,  and  eat,  and  play,  and  sleep.  The  greatest  toils 
of  the  men  were  to  perfect  the  palisades  of  the  forts ; to  manufact- 
ure a boat  out  of  a tree,  by  means  of  fire  and  a stone  hatchet;  to 
repair  their  cabins;  to  get  ready  instruments  of  war  or  the  chase, 
and  to  adorn  their  persons.  Woman  is  the  laborer;  woman  bears 
the  burdens  of  life.  The  food  that  is  raised  from  the  earth  is  the 
fruit  of  her  industry.  With  no  instrument  but  a wooden  mattock, 
a shell,  or  a shoulder-blade  of  the  buffalo,  she  plants  the  maize, 
the  beans,  and  the  running  vines.  She  drives  the  blackbirds  from 
the  cornfield,  breaks  the  weeds,  and,  in  due  season,  gathers  the 
harvest.  She  pounds  the  parched  corn,  dries  the  buffalo  meat, 
and  prepares  for  Winter  the  store  of  wild  fruits ; she  brings  home 
the  game  which  her  husband  has  killed;  she  bears  the  wood,  and 
draws  the  water,  and  spreads  the  repast.  If  the  chief  constructs 
the  keel  of  the  canoe,  it  is  woman  who  stitches  the  bark  with  split 
ligaments  of  the  pine  root,  and  sears  the  seams  with  resinous  gum. 
If  the  men  prepare  the  poles  for  the  wigwam,  it  is  woman  who 
builds  it,  and,  in  times  of  journeyings,  bears  it  on  her  shoulders. 
The  Indian’s  wife  was  his  slave;  and  the  number  of  his  slaves  was 
a criterion  of  his  wealth. 

The  Indians  of  our  republic  had  no  calendar  of  their  own; 
their  languages  have  no  word  for  year,  and  they  reckon  time  by 
the  return  of  snow  or  the  springing  of  the  flowers ; their  months 
are  named  from  that  which  the  earth  produces  in  them ; and  their 
almanac  is  kept  in  the  sky  by  the  birds,  whose  flight  announces 
the  progress  of  the  seasons.  The  brute  creation  gives  them  warn- 
ing of  the  coming  storm;  the  motion  of  the  sun  marks  the  hour  of 
the  day;  and  the  distinctions  of  time  are  noted,  not  in  numbers, 
but  in  words  that  breathe  th}  grace  and  poetry  of  nature. 

The  aboriginal  tribes  of  the  United  States  depended  for  food 
on  the  chase,  the  fisheries  and  agriculture.  They  kept  no  herds; 
they  never  were  shepherds.  The  bison  is  difficult  to  tame,  and  its 
female  yields  little  milk,  of  which  the  use  was  unknown  to  the  red 
man;  water  was  his  only  drink.  The  moose,  the  bear,  the  deer, 


368 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


and,  at  the  West,  the  buffalo,  besides  smaller  game  and  fowl,  were 
pursued  with  arrows  tipped  with  hart’s-horn,  or  eagle’s  claws,  or 
pointed  stones.  -With  nets  and  spears,  fish  were  taken,  and,  for 
want  of  salt,  were  cured  by  smoke.  Wild  fruits,  and  abundant 
berries,  were  a resource  in  their  season;  and  troops  of  girls,  with 
baskets  of  bark,  would  gather  the  fragrant  fruit  of  the  wild  straw- 
berry. But  all  the  tribes  south  of  the  St.  Lawrence,  except  remote 
ones  on  the  northeast  and  the  northwest,  cultivated  the  earth. 
Unlike  the  people  of  the  Old  World,  they  were  at  once  hunters  and 
fillers  of  the  ground.  The  contrast  was  due  to  the  character  of 
their  grain.  Wheat  or  rye  would  have  been  a useless  gift  to  the 
Indian,  who  had  neither  plough  nor  sickle.  The  maize  springs 
luxuriantly  from  a warm,  new  field,  and  in  the  rich  soil,  with  little 
aid  from  culture,  outstrips  the  weeds;  bears,  not  thirty,  not  fifty, 
but  a thousand-fold ; if  once  dry,  is  hurt  neither  by  heat  nor  cold ; 
may  be  preserved  in  a pit  or  a cave  for  years,  aye,  and  for  cen- 
turies; is  gathered  from  the  field  by  the  hand,  without  knife  or 
reaping-hook;  and  becomes  nutritious  food  by  a simple  roasting 
before  a fire.  A little  of  its  parched  meal,  with  water  from  the 
brook,  was  often  a dinner  and  supper;  and  the  warrior,  with  a 
small  supply  of  it  in  a basket  at  his  back,  or  in  a leathern  girdle, 
and  with  his  bow  and  arrows,  is  ready  for  travel  at  a moment’s 
warning.  The  tobacco  plant  was  not  forgotten ; and  the  cultivation 
of  the  vine,  which  we  have  learned  of  them  to  call  the  squash, 
with  beans,  completed  their  husbandry. 

During  the  mild  season,  there  may  have  been  little  suffering. 
But  thrift  was  wanting;  the  stores  collected  by  the  industry  of  the 
women  were  squandered  in  festivities.  The  hospitality  of  the  In  • 
dian  has  rarely  been  questioned.  The  stranger  enters  his  cabin,  by 
day  or  by  night,  without  asking  leave,  and  is  entertained  as  freely 
as  a thrush  or  a blackbird  that  regales  himself  on  the  luxuries  of 
the  fruitful  grove.  He  will  take  up  his  own  rest  abroad, 
that  he  may  give  his  own  skin  or  mat  of  sedge  to  his 
guest.  Nor  is  the  traveler  questioned  as  to  the  purpose  of 
his  visit;  he  chooses  his  own  time  freely  to  deliver  his  message. 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


36$ 


Festivals,  too,  were  common,  at  some  of  which  it  was  the  rule  to 
eat  everything  that  was  offered;  and  the  indulgence  of  appetite 
surpassed  belief . But  what  could  be  more  miserable  than  the  tribes 
of  the  north  and  northwest,  in  the  depth  of  Winter,  suffering  from 
an  annual  famine ; driven  by  the  intense  cold  to  sit  indolently  in 
the  smoke  around  the  fire  in  the  cabin,  and  to  fast  for  days  to- 
gether; and  then,  again,  compelled,  by  faintness  for  want  of  sus- 
tenance, to  reel  into  the  woods,  and  gather  moss  or  bark  for  a thin 
decoction,  that  might,  at  least,  relieve  the  extremity  of  hunger? 

Famine  gives  a terrible  energy  to  the  brutal  part  of  our  nature. 
A.  shipwreck  will  make  cannibals  of  civilized  men ; a siege  changes 
the  refinements  of  urbanity  into  excesses  at  which  humanity  shud- 
ders; a retreating  army  abandons  its  wounded.  The  hunting 
tribes  have  the  affections  of  men;  but  among  them,  also,  extremity 
of  want  produces  like  results.  The  aged  and  infirm  meet  with 
little  tenderness;  the  hunters,  as  they  roam  the  wilderness,  desert 
their  old  men;  if  provisions  fail,  the  feeble  drop  down,  and  are  lost, 
or  life  is  shortened  by  a blow. 

The  fate  of  the  desperately  ill  was  equally  sad.  Diseases  were 
believed  to  spring,  in  part,  from  natural  causes,  for  which  natural 
remedies  were  prescribed.  Of  these,  the  best  was  the  vapor  bath, 
prepared  in  a tent  covered  with  skins,  and  warmed  by  means  of  hot 
stones;  or  decoctions  of  bark,  or  roots,  or  herbs,  were  used.  Graver 
maladies  were  inexplicable,  and  their  causes  and  cures  formed  a 
part  of  their  religious  superstitions ; but  those  who  lingered  with 
them,  especially  the  aged,  were  sometimes  neglected  and  sometimes 
put  to  death. 

The  clothing  of  the  natives  was,  in  Summer,  but  a piece  of 
skin,  like  an  apron,  round  the  waist;  in  Winter,  a bear-skin,  or, 
more  commonly,  robes  made  of  the  skins  of  the  fox  and  the  beaver. 
Their  feet  were  protected  by  soft  moccasins ; and  to  these  were 
bound  the  broad  snow-shoes,  on  which,  though  cumbersome  to  the 
novice,  the  Indian  hunter  could  leap  like  the  roe.  Of  the  women, 
head,  arms,  and  legs,  were  uncovered;  a mat  or  a skin,  neatly  pre- 
pared, tied  over  the  shoulders,  and  fastened  to  the  waist  by  a girdle, 


24 


370 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


extended  from  the  neck  to  the  knees.  They  glittered  with  tufts  of 
elk  hair,  brilliantly  dyed  in  scarlet;  and  strings  of  the  various 
kinds  of  shells  were  their  pearls  and  diamonds.  The  Summer  gar- 
ments of  moose  and  deer-skins,  were  painted  of  many  colors;  and 
the  fairest  feathers  of  the  turkey,  fastened  by  threads  made  from 
wild  hemp  and  nettle,  were  curiously  wrought  into  mantles.  The 
claws  of  the  grizzly  hear  formed  a proud  collar  for  a war-chief;  a 
piece  of  an  enemy’s  scalp,  with  a tuft  of  long  hair,  painted  red, 
glittered  on  the  stem  of  their  war-pipes ; the  wing  of  a red-bird,  or 
the  beak  and  plumage  of  a raven,  decorated  their  locks;  the  skin  of 
a rattlesnake  was  worn  round  the  arm  of  their  chiefs;  the  skin  of 
the  polecat,  bound  round  the  leg,  was  their  order  of  the  Garter— 
emblem  of  noble  daring.  A warrior’s  dress  was  often  a history  of 
his  deeds.  His  skin  was  also  tattooed  with  figures  of  animals,  of 
leaves,  of  flowers,  and  painted  with  lively  and  shining  colors. 

Some  had  the  nose  tipped  with  blue,  the  eyebrows,  eyes,  and 
cheeks,  tinged  with  black,  and  the  rest  of  the  face  red;  others  had 
black,  red,  and  blue  stripes  drawn  from  the  ears  to  the  mouth; 
others  had  a broad,  black  band,  like  a ribbon,  drawn  from  ear  to 
ear  across  the  eyes,  with  smaller  bands  on  the  cheeks.  When  they 
made  visits,  and  when  they  assembled  in  council,  they  painted 
themselves  gloriously,  delighting  especially  in  vermilion. 

There  can  be  no  society  without  government ; but  among  the 
Indian  tribes  on  the  soil  of  our  republic,  there  was  not  only  no  writ- 
ten law — there  was  no  traditionary  expression  of  law;  government 
rested  on  opinion  and  usage,  and  the  motives  to  the  usage  were 
never  embodied  in  language;  they  gained  utterance  only  in  the 
fact,  and  power  only  from  opinion.  No  ancient  legislator  believed 
that  human  society  could  be  maintained  with  so  little  artifice.  Un- 
conscious of  political  principles,  they  remained  under  the  influence 
of  instincts.  Their  forms  of  government  grew  out  of  their  pas- 
sions and  their  wants,  and  were,  therefore,  everywhere  neany  the 
same.  Without  a code  of  laws,  without  a distinct  recognition  of 
succession  in  the  magistracy,  by  inheritance  or  election,  government 
was  conducted  harmoniously,  by  the  influence  of  native  genius, 
virtue,  and  experience, 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


371 


Prohibitory  laws  were  hardly  sanctioned  by  savage  opinion. 
The  wild  man  hates  restraint,  and  loves  to  do  what  is  right  in  his 
own  eyes.  As  there  was  no  commerce,  no  coin,  no  promissory 
notes,  no  employment  of  others  for  hire,  there  were  no  contracts. 
Exchanges  were  but  a reciprocity  of  presents,  and  mutual  gifts 
were  the  only  traffic.  Arrests  and  prisons,  lawyers  and  sheriffs, 
were  unknown.  Each  man  was  his  own  protector,  and,  as  there 
was  no  public  justice,  each  man  issued  to  himself  his  letter  of  re- 
prisals, and  became  his  own  avenger.  In  case  of  death  by  violence, 
the  departed  shade  could  not  rest  till  appeased  by  a retaliation. 
His  kindred  would  “go  a thousand  miles,  for  the  purpose  of  revenge, 
over  hills  and, mountains;  through  large  cane  swamps,  full  of  grape- 
vines and  briars;  over  broad  lakes,  rapid  rivers,  and  deep  creeks; 
and  all  the  way  endangered  by  poisonous  snakes,  exposed  to  the 
extremities  of  heat  and  cold,  to  hunger  and  thirst.”  And  blood 
being  once  shed,  the  reciprocity  of  attacks  involved  family  in  the 
mortal  strife  against  family,  tribe  against  tribe,  often  continuing 
from  generation  to  generation.  Yet  mercy  could  make  itself  heard, 
even  among  barbarians ; and  peace  was  restored  by  atoning  pres- 
ents, if  they  were  enough  to  cover  up  the  graves  of  the  dead. 

The  acceptance  of  the  gifts  pacified  the  families  of  those  who 
were  at  variance.  In  savage  life,  which  admits  no  division  of  labor, 
and  has  but  the  same  pursuit  for  all,  the  bonds  of  relationship  are 
widely  extended.  Families  remain  undivided,  having  a common 
emblem,  which  designates  all  their  members  as  effectually  as  with 
us  the  name.  The  limit  of  the  family  is  the  limit  of  the  inter- 
dicted degrees  of  consanguinity  for  marriage.  They  hold  the  bonds 
of  brotherhood  so  dear,  that  a brother  commonly  pays  the  debt  of 
a deceased  brother,  and  assumes  his  revenge  and  his  perils.  There 
are  no  beggars  among  them,  no  fatherless  children  unprovided  for. 
The  families  that  dwell  together,  hunt  together,  roam  together, 
fight  together,  constitute  a tribe.  Danger  from  neighbors,  favoring 
union,  leads  to  alliances  and  confederacies,  just  as  pride,  which  is 
a pervading  element  in  Indian  character,  and  shelters  itself  in 
every  lodge,  leads  to  subdivisions. 


372 


TRLASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


✓ 


As  the  tribe  was  but  a union  of  families,  government  was  a 
consequence  of  family  relations,  and  the  head  of  the  family  was  its 
chief.  The  succession  depended  on  birth,  and  was  inherited 
through  the  female  line.  Elsewhere,  the  hereditary  right  was 
modified  by  opinion.  Opinion  could  crowd  a civil  chief  into  retire- 
ment, and  could  dictate  his  successor.  Nor  was  assassination  un- 
known. The  organization  of  the  savage  communities  was  like  that 
which  with  us  takes  place  at  the  call  of  a spontaneous  public  meet- 
ing, where  opinion  in  advance  designates  the  principal  actors;  or, 
as  with  us,  at  the  death  of  the  head  of  a large  family,  opinion 
within  the  family  selects  the  best  fitted  of  its  surviving  members  to 
settle  its  affairs.  Doubtless,  the  succession  appeared  sometimes  to 
depend  on  the  will  of  the  surviving  matron;  sometimes  to  have 
been  consequent  on  birth;  sometimes  to  have  been  the  result  of  the 
free  election  of  the  wild  democracy,  and  of  silent  opinion.  There 
have  even  been  chiefs  who  could  not  tell  when,  where,  or  how,  they 
obtained  power. 

In  like  manner,  the  different  accounts  of  the  power  of  the 
chief  are  contradictory  only  in  appearance.  The  Emit  of  his  au- 
thority would  be  found  in  his  personal  character.  The  humiliating 
subordination  of  one  will  to  another  was  everywhere  unknown. 
The  Indian  chief  has  no  crown,  or  scepter,  or  guards;  no  outward 
symbols  of  supremacy,  or  means  of  giving  validity  to  his  decrees. 
The  bounds  of  his  authority  float  with  the  current  of  opinion  in 
the  tribe;  he  is  not  so  much  obeyed,  as  followed  with  the  alacrity  of 
free  volition;  and  therefore  the  extent  of  his  power  depends  on  his 
personal  character.  There  have  been  chiefs  whose  commanding 
genius  could  so  overawe  and  sway  the  common  mind,  as  to  gain, 
for  a season,  an  almost  absolute  rule — while  others  had  little 
authority,  and,  if  they  used  menaces,  were  abandoned. 

Each  village  governed  itself  as  if  independent,  and  each  after 
the  same  analogies,  without  variety.  If  the  observer  had  regard  to 
the  sachems,  the  government  seemed  monarchical;  but  as,  of 
measures  that  concerned  all,  “they  would  not  conclude  aught  unto 
which  the  people  were  averse,”  and  every  mail  of  due  age  was  ad- 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


373 


mitted  to  council,  it  might  also  he  described  as  a democracy.  In 
council,  the  people  were  guided  by  the  eloquent,  were  carried  away 
by  the  brave;  and  this  influence,  which  was  recognized,  and  regu- 
lar in  its  action,  appeared  to  constitute  an  oligarchy.  The  affairs 
relating  to  the  whole  nation  were  transacted  in  general  council, 
and  with  such  equality,  and  such  zeal  for  the  common  good,  that, 
while  any  one  might  have  dissented  with  impunity,  the  voice  of  the 
tribe  would  yet  be  unanimous  in  its  decisions. 

Their  delight  was  in  assembling  together,  and  listening  to 
messengers  from  abroad.  Seated  in  a semicircle  on  the  ground,  in 
double  or  triple  rows,  with  the  knees  almost  meeting  the  face — 
the  painted  and  tattooed  chiefs  adorned  with  skins  and  plumes, 
with  the  beaks  of  the  red-bird,  or  the  clawrs  of  the  bear — each 
listener  perhaps  with  a pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  preserving  deep 
silence,  they  would  give  solemn  attention  to  the  speaker,  who,  with 
great  action  and  energy  of  language,  delivered  his  message;  and, 
if  his  eloquence  pleased,  they  esteemed  him  as  a god.  Decorum 
was  never  broken;  there  were  never  two  speakers  struggling  to 
anticipate  each  other;  they  did  not  express  their  spleen  by  blows; 
they  restrained  passionate  invective ; the  debate  was  never  disturbed 
by  an  uproar;  questions  of  order  were  unknown. 

The  record  of  their  treaties  was  kept  by  strings  of  wampum; 
these  were  their  annals.  When  the  envoys  of  nations  met  in 
solemn  council,  gift  replied  to  gift,  and  belt  to  belt;  by  these,  the 
memory  of  the  speaker  was  refreshed;  or  he  would  hold  in  his 
hand  a bundle  of  little  sticks,  and  for  each  of  them  deliver  a mes- 
sage. To  do  this  well,  required  capacity  and  experience.  Each 
tribe  had,  therefore,  its  heralds  or  envoys,  selected  with  reference 
only  to  their  personal  merit,  and  because  they  could  speak  well; 
and  often,  an  orator,  without  the  aid  of  rank  as  a chief,  by  the 
brilliancy  of  his  eloquence,  swayed  the  minds  of  a confederacy. 
That  the  words  of  friendship  might  be  transmitted  safely  through 
the  wilderness,  the  red  men  revered  the  peace-pipe.  The  person  of 
him  that  traveled  with  it  was  sacred;  he  could  disarm  the  young 
warrior  as  by  a spell,  and  secure  himself  a fearless  welcome  in 


374 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


every  cabin.  Each  village  also  had  its  calumet,  which  was  adorned 
by  the  chief  with  eagles’  feathers,  and  consecrated  in  the  general 
assembly  of  the  nation.  The  envoys  from  those  desiring  peace  or 
an  alliance,  would  come  within  a short  distance  of  the  town,  and, 
uttering  a cry,  seat  themselves  on  the  ground.  The  great  chief, 
bearing  the  peace-pipe  of  his  tribe,  with  its  mouth  pointing  to  the 
skies,  goes  forth  to  meet  them,  accompanied  by  a long  procession 
of  his  clansmen,  chanting  the  hymn  of  peace.  The  strangers  rise 
to  receive  them,  singing  also  a song,  to  put  away  all  wars,  and  to 
bury  all  revenge.  As  they  meet,  each  party  smokes  the  pipe  of  the 
other,  and  peace  is  ratified.  The  strangers  are  then  conducted  to 
the  village ; the  herald  goes  out  into  the  street  that  divides  the  wig- 
wams, and  makes  repeated  proclamation  that  the  guests  are  friends; 
and  the  glory  of  the  tribe  is  advanced  by  the  profusion  of  bear’s 
meat,  and  flesh  of  dogs,  and  hominy,  which  give  magnificence  to 
the  banquets  in  honor  of  the  embassy. 

But,  if  councils  were  their  recreation,  war  alone  was  the  ave- 
nue to  glory.  All  other  employment  seemed  unworthy  of  human 
dignity;  in  warfare  against  the  brute  creation,  but  still  more  against 
man,  they  sought  liberty,  happiness,  and  renown;  thus  was  gained 
an  honorable  appellation,  while  the  mean  and  the  obscure  among 
them  had  not  even  a name.  Hence,  to  ask  an  Indian  his  name 
was  an  offense ; a chief  would  push  the  question  aside  with  scorn ; 
for  it  implied  that  his  deeds  and  the  titles  conferred  by  them  were 
unknown. 

The  code  of  war  of  the  red  men  attests  the  freedom  of  their 
life.  No  war-chief  was  appointed  on  account  of  birth,  but  was, 
in  every  case,  elected  by  opinion  ; and  every  war-party  was  but  a 
band  of  volunteers,  enlisted  for  one  special  expedition,  and  for  no 
more.  Any  one  who,  on  chanting  the  war-song,  could  obtain  vol- 
unteer followers,  became  a war-chief. 

Solemn  feasts  and  religious  rites  precede  the  departure  of  the 
warriors ; the  war-dance  must  be  danced,  and  the  war-song  sung. 
They  express  in  their  melodies  a contempt  of  death,  a passion  for 
glory;  and  the  chief  boasts  that  “the  spirits  on  high  shall  repeat 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLrP, 


375 


liis  name.”  A belt  painted  red  or  a bundle  of  bloocK  sticks,  sent 
to  the  enemy,  is  a declaration  of  defiance.  As  the  war-party  leave 
the  village,  they  address  the  women  in  a farewell  hymn:  “Do  not 

weep  for  me,  loved  woman,  should  I die;  weep  for  yourself  alone. 
I go  to  revenge  our  relations  fallen  and  slain ; our  foes  shall  lie  like 
them;  I go  to  lay  them  low.”  And,  with  the  pride  whichever 
marks  the  barbarian,  each  one  adds,  “If  any  man  thinks  himself  a 
great  warrior,  I think  myself  the  same.” 


hers,  for,  on  any  one  expedition,  they  rarely  exceeded  forty  men; 
it  was  the  parties  of  six  or  seven  which  were  the  most  to  he 
dreaded.  Skill  consisted  in  surprising  the  enemy.  They  follow 
his  trail,  to  kill  him  when  he  sleeps ; or  they  lie  in  ambush  near  a 
village,  and  watch  for  an  opportunity  of  suddenly  surprising  an 
individual,  or,  it  may  be,  a woman  and  her  children;  and,  with 
three  strokes  to  each,  the  scalps  of  the  victims  being  suddenly 
taken  off,  the  brave  flies  hack  with  his  companions,  to  hang  the 
trophies  in  his  cabin,  to  go  from  village  to  village  in  exulting  pro- 
cession, to  hear  orators  recount  his  deeds  to  the  elders  and  the 
chief  people,  and,  by  the  number  of  scalps  taken  with  his  own 
hand,  to  gain  the  high  war- titles  of  honor.  Nay,  war-parties  of 
but  two  or  three  were  not  uncommon.  Clad  in  skins,  with  a sup- 
ply of  red  paint,  a bow,  and  quiver  full  of  arrows,  they  would 
roam  through  the  wide  forest,  as  a bark  would  over  the  ocean;  for 
days  and  weeks,  they  would  hang  on  the  skirts  of  their  enemy, 
waiting  the  moment  for  striking  a blow.  It  was  the  danger  of  such 
inroads,  that,  in  time  of  war,  made  every  English  family  on  the 
frontier  insecure. 

The  Romans,  in  their  triumphal  processions,  exhibited  cap- 
tives to  the  gaze  of  the  Roman  people;  the  Indian  conqueror  com- 
pels them  to  run  the  gauntlet  through  the  children  and  women  of 
his  tribe.  To  inflict  blows  that  cannot  be  returned,  is  proof  of  full 
success,  and  the  entire  humiliation  of  their  enemy;  it  is,  more- 
over, an  experiment  of  courage  and  patience.  Those  who  show 
fortitude  are  applauded;  the  coward  becomes  an  object  of  scorn. 


376 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


v 


Voices  of  the  Dead. 

“ He  being  dead  yet  speaketh.  ” The  departed  have  voices  for 
us.  In  order  to  illustrate  this,  I remark,  in  the  first  place,  that 
the  dead  speak  to  us,  and  commune  with  us,  through  the  works 
which  they  have  left  behind  them.  As  the  islands  of  the  sea 
are  the  built-up  casements  of  myriads  of  departed  lives;  as  the 
earth  itself  is  a great  catacomb; — so  we,  who  live  and  move  upon 
its  surface,  inherit  the  productions  and  enjoy  the  fruits  of  the 
dead.  They  have  bequeathed  to  us  by  far  the  larger  portion  of  all 
that  influences  our  thoughts,  or  mingles  with  the  circumstances  of 
our  daily  life.  We  walk  through  the  streets  they  laid  out.  We 
inhabit  the  houses  they  built.  We  practice  the  customs  they  es- 
tablished. We  gather  wisdom  from  the  books  they  wrote.  We 
pluck  the  ripe  clusters  of  their  experience.  We  boast  in  their 
achievements.  Every  device  and  influence  they  have  left  behind 
tells  their  story,  and  is  a-  voice  of  the  dead.  We  feel  this  more 
impressively  when  we  enter  the  customary  place  of  one  recently 
departed,  and  look  around  upon  his  work.  The  half-finished  labor, 
the  utensils  hastily  thrown  aside,  the  material  that  exercised  his 
care  and  received  his  last  touch,  all  express  him  and  seem  alive 
with  his  presence.  By  them,  though  dead,  he  speaketh  to  us  with 
a freshness  and  tone  like  his  words  of  yesterday.  How  touching 
are  those  sketched  forms,  those  unfilled  outlines,  in  that  picture 
which  employed  so  fully  the  time  and  genius  of  the  great  artist — 
Belshazzar’s  Feast!  In  the  incomplete  process,  the  transition  state 
of  an  idea  from  its  conception  to  its  realization,  we  are  brought 
closer  to  the  mind  of  the  artist;  we  detect  its  springs  and  hidden 
workings,  and  therefore  feel  its  reality  more  than  in  the  finished 
effort.  And  this  is  one  reason  why  we  are  more  impressed  at  be- 
holding the  work  just  left  than  in  gazing  upon  one  that  has  been 
for  a long  time  abandoned.  Having  had  actual  communion  with 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD.  377 

the  contriving  mind,  we  recognize  its  presence  more  readily  in  its 
production ; or  else  the  recency  of  the  departure  heightens  the  ex- 
pressiveness with  which  everything  speaks  of  the  departed.  The 
dead  child’s  cast-off  garments,  the  toy  just  tossed  aside,  startle  us 
as  though  with  his  renewed  presence.  A year  hence  they  will  sug- 
gest him  to  us,  but  with  a different  effect. 

The  dead  speak  to  us  in  memory  and  association.  If  their 
voices  may  be  constantly  heard  in  their  works,  we  do  not  always 
heed  them ; neither  have  we  that  care  and  attachment  for  the  great 
congregation  of  the  departed,  which  will  at  any  time  call  them  up 
vividly  before  us.  But  in  that  congregation  there  are  those  whom 
we  have  known  intimately  and  fondly,  whom  we  cherished  with 
our  *best  love,  who  lay  close  to  our  bosoms.  And  these  speak  to  us 
in  a more  private  and  peculiar  manner, — in  mementoes  that  flash 
upon  us  the  whole  person  of  the  departed,  every  physical  and  spir- 
itual lineament — in  consecrated  hours  of  recollection  that  open  up 
all  the  train  of  the  past,  and  re-twine  its  broken  ties  around  our 
hearts,  and  make  its  endearments  present  still.  Then,  then, 
though  dead,  they  speak  to  us.  It  needs  not  the  vocal  utterance 
nor  the  living  presence,  but  the  mood  that  transforms  the  scene 
and  the  hour  supplies  these.  That  face  that  has  slept  so  long  in 
the  grave,  now  bending  upon  us,  pale  and  silent,  but  affectionate 
still;  that  more  vivid  recollection  of  every  feature,  tone,  and  move- 
ment, that  brings  before  us  the  departed,  just  as  we  knew  them  in 
the  full  flush  of  life  and  health;  that  soft  and  consecrating  spell 
which  falls  upon  us,  drawing  in  our  thoughts  from  the  present,  ar- 
resting, as  it  were,  the  current  of  our  being,  and  turning  it  back 
and  holding  it  still  as  the  flood  of  actual  life  rushes  by  us, — while 
in  that  trance  of  soul  the  beings  of  the  past  are  shadowed;  old 
friends,  old  days,  old  scenes  recur;  familiar  looks  beam  close 
upon  us;  familiar  words  re-echo  in  our  ears,  and  we  are 
closed  up  and  absorbed  with  the  by-gone,  until  tears  dissolve 
the  film  from  our  eyes,  and  some  shock  of  the  actual  wakes 
us  from  our  reverie ; all  these,  I say,  make  the  dead  to  commune 


878 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


with  us  as  really  as  though  in  bodily  form  they  should  come 
out  from  the  chambers  of  their  mysterious  silence  and  speak 
to  us.  And  if  life  consists  in  experiences , and  not  mere  physical 
contacts — and  if  love  and  communion  belong  to  that  experience, 
though  they  take  place  in  meditation,  or  dreams,  or  by  actual  con- 
tact— then,  in  that  hour  of  remembrance,  have  we  really  lived  with 
the  departed,  and  the  departed  have  come  back  and  lived  with  us. 
Though  dead,  they  have  spoken  to  us.  And  though  memory  some- 
times induces  the  spirit  of  heaviness — though  it  is  often  the  agent 
of  conscience  and  wakens  us  to  chastise — yet  it  is  wonderful  how, 
from  events  that  were  deeply  mingled  with  pain,  it  will  extract  an 
element  of  sweetness.  A writer,  in  relating  one  of  the  experiences 
of  her  sick-room,  has  illustrated  this.  In  an  hour  of  suffering, 
when  no  one  was  near  her,  she  went  from  her  bed  and  her  room  to 
another  apartment,  and  looked  upon  a glorious  landscape  of  sun- 
rise and  Spring-time.  “I  was  suffering  too  much  to  enjoy  this 
picture  at  the  moment,”  she  says,  “but  how  was  it  at  the  end  of 
the  year?  The  pains  of  all  those  hours  were  annihilated,  as  com- 
pletely vanished  as  if  they  had  never  been ; while  the  momentary 
peep  behind  the  window-curtain  made  me  possessor  of  this  radiant 
picture  forevermore.”  “Whence  this  wide  difference,”  she  asks, 
“between  the  good  and  the  evil?  Because  the  good  is  indissolubly 
connected  with  ideas — with  the  unseen  realities  which  are  inde- 
structible.” And  though  the  illustration  which  she  thus  gives  bears 
the  impression  of  an  individual  peculiarity,  instead  of  an  universal 
truth,  still,  in  the  instance  to  which  I apply  it,  I believe  it 
will  very  generally  hold  true  that  mepiory  leaves  a pleasant  rather 
than  a painful  impression.  At  least,  there  is  so  much  that  is 
pleasant  mingled  with  it,  that  we  would  not  willingly  lose  the 
faculty  of  memory — the  consciousness  that  we  can  thus  call 
back  the  dead  and  hear  their  voices — that  we  have  the  power 
of  softening  the  rugged  realities  which  only  suggest  our  loss  and 
disappointment,  by  transferring  the  scene  and  the  hour  to  the  past 
and  the  departed.  And,  as  our  conceptions  become  more  and 
more  spiritual,  we  shall  find  the  real  to  be  less  dependent  upon  the 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


879 


outward  and  the  visible — we  shall  learn  how  much  life  there  is  in  a 
thought — how  veritable  are  the  communions  of  spirit  with  spirit  ; 
and  the  hour  in  which  memory  gives  us  the  voices  of  the  dead  will 
he  prized  by  us  as  an  hour  of  actual  experience,  and  such  oppor- 
tunities will  grow  more  precious  to  us.  Xo,  we  would  not  willingly 
lose  the  power  of  memory. 

Well,  then,  is  it  for  us  at  times  to  listen  to  the  voices  of  the 
dead.  By  so  doing  we  are  better  fitted  for  life  and  for  death.  From 
that  audience  we  go  purified  and  strengthened  into  the  varied  dis- 
cipline of  our  mortal  state.  We  are  willing  to  stay  knowing  that 
the  dead  are  so  near  us,  and  that  our  communion  with  them  may 
he  so  intimate.  We  are  willing  to  go  seeing  that  we  shall  not  be 
wholly  separated  from  those  we  leave  behind.  We  will  toil  in  our 
lot  while  God  pleases,  and  when  He  summons  us  we  will  calmly 
depart.  When  the  silver  cord  becomes  untwined,  and  the  golden 
bowl  broken — when  the  wheel  of  action  stands  still  in  the  ex- 
hausted cistern  of  our  life,  may  we  he  down  in  the  fight  of  that 
faith  which  makes  so  beautiful  the  face  of  the  dying  Christian,  and 
has  converted  death’s  ghastly  silence  to  a peaceful  sleep.  May  we 
rise  to  a holier  and  more  visible  communing,  in  the  land  without 
a sin  and  without  a tear.  Where  the  dead  shall  be  closer  to  us 
than  in  this  life.  Where  not  the  partition  of  a shadow  or  a doubt 
shall  come  between. 


380 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


The  Head-Stone. 

The  coffin  was  let  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  grave,  the  planks 
were  removed  from  the  heaped -up  brink,  the  first  rattling  clods  had 
struck  their  knell,  the  quick  shoveling  was  over,  and  the  long,  broad, 
skillfully  cut  pieces  of  turf  were  aptly  joined  together,  and  trimly 
laid  .by  the  beating  spade,  so  that  the  newest  mound  in  the  church- 
yard was  scarcely  distinguishable  from  those  that  were  grown  over 
by  the  undisturbed  grass  and  daisies  of  a luxuriant  Spring.  The 
burial  was  soon  over;  and  the  party,  with  one  consenting  motion, 
having  uncovered  their  heads,  in  decent  reverence  of  the  place  and 
occasion,  were  beginning  to  separate,  and  about  to  leave  the  church- 
yard. 

Here,  some  acquaintances,  from  distant  parts  of  the  parish, 
who  had  not  had  an  opportunity  of  addressing  each  other  in  the 
house  that  had  belonged  to  the  deceased,  nor  in  the  course  of 
the  few  hundred  yards  that  the  little  procession  had  to  move  over 
from  his  bed  to  his  grave,  were  shaking  hands  quietly,  but  cheer- 
fully, and  inquiring  after  the  welfare  of  each  other’s  families. 
There,  a small  knot  of  neighbors  were  speaking,  without  exaggera- 
tion, of  the  respectable  character  which  the  deceased  had  borne, 
and  mentioning  to  one  another  little  incidents  of  his  life,  some  of 
them  so  remote  as  to  be  known  only  to  the  gray-headed  persons  of 
the  group ; while  a few  yards  further  removed  from  the  spot,  were 
standing  together  parties,  who  discussed  ordinary  concerns,  alto- 
together  unconnected  with  the  funeral,  such  as  the  state  of  the 
markets,  the  promise  of  the  season,  or  change  of  tenants ; but  still 
with  a sobriety  of  manner  and  voice  that  was  insensibly  produced 
by  the  influence  of  the  simple  ceremony  now  closed,  by  the  quiet 
graves  around,  and  the  shadow  of  the  spire  and  gray  walls  of  the 
house  of  God. 

Two  men  yet  stood  together  at  the  head  of  the  grave,  with 


TEEASUEES  FEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


881 


countenances  of  sincere,  but  unimpassioned  grief.  They  were 
brothers,  the  only  sons  of  him  who  had  been  buried.  And  there 
was  something  in  their  situation  that  naturally  kept  the  eyes  of 
many  directed  upon  them,  for  a long  time,  and  more  intently  than 
would  have  been  the  case,  had  there  been  nothing  more  observable 
about  them  than  the  common  symptoms  of  a common  sorrow. 
But  these  two  brothers,  who  were  now  standing  at  the  head  of  their 
father’s  grave,  had  for  some  years  been  totally  estranged  from  each 
other,  and  the  only  words  that  had  passed  between  them,  during 
all  that  time,  had  been  uttered  within  a few  days  past,  during  the 
necessary  preparations  for  the  old  man’s  funeral. 

No  deep  and  deadly  quarrel  was  between  these  brothers,  and 
neither  of  them  could  distinctly  tell  the  cause  of  this  unnatural 
estrangement.  Perhaps  dim  jealousies  of  their  father’s  favor;  self- 
ish thoughts  that  will  sometimes  force  themselves  into  poor  men’s 
hearts  respecting  temporal  expectations ; unaccommodating  man- 
ners on  both  sides;  taunting  words,  that  mean  little  when  uttered, 
but  which  rankle  and  fester  in  remembrance ; imagined  opposition 
of  interests,  that,  duly  considered,  would  have  been  found  one  and 
the  same;  these,  and  many  other  causes,  slight  when  single,  but 
strong  when  rising  up  together  in  one  baneful  band,  had  gradually 
but  fatally  infected  their  hearts,  till  at  last  they,  who  in  youth  had 
been  seldom  separate,  and  truly  attached,  now  met  at  market  and, 
miserable  to  say,  at  church,  with  dark  and  averted  faces,  like  differ- 
ent clansmen  during  a feud. 

Surely  if  anything  could  have  softened  their  hearts  toward 
each  other,  it  must  have  been  to  stand  silently,  side  by  side,  while 
the  earth,  stones,  and  clods,  were  falling  down  upon  their  father’s 
coffin.  And  doubtless  their  hearts  were  so  softened.  But  pride, 
though  it  can  not  prevent  the  holy  affections  of  nature  from  being 
felt,  may  prevent  them  from  being  shown ; and  these  two  brothers 
stood  there  together,  determined  not  to  let  each  other  know  the 
mutua1  tenderness  that,  in  spite  of  them,  was  gushing  up  in  their 
hearts,  and  teaching  them  the  unconfessed  folly  and  wickedness  of 
their  causeless  quarrel. 


382 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORL* 


A head-stone  had  been  prepared,  and  a person  came  forward  to 
plant  it.  The  elder  brother  directed  him  how  to  place  it,  a plain 
stone  with  a sand-glass,  skull,  and  cross-bones,  chiseled  not  rudely, 
and  a few  words  inscribed.  The  younger  brother  regarded  the 
operation  with  a troubled  eye,  and  said,  loudly  enough  to  be  heard 
by  several  of  the  bystanders,  “William,  this  was  not  kind  in  you; 
you  should  have  told  me  of  this.  I loved  my  father  as  well  as  you 
could  love  him.  You  were  the  elder,  and,  it  may  be,  the  favorite 
son;  but  I had  a right  in  nature  to  have  joined  you  in  ordering  this 
head-stone,  had  I not?” 

During  these  words,  the  stone  was  sinking  into  the  earth,  and 
many  persons,  who  were  on  their  way  from  the  grave,  returnee'  - 
For  awhile  the  elder  brother  said  nothing,  for  he  had  a conscious- 
ness in  his  heart  that  he  ought  to  have  consulted  his  father’s  son, 
in  designing  this  last  becoming  mark  of  affection  and  respect  to 
his  memory ; so  the  stone  was  planted  in  silence,  and  now  stoo  \ 
erect,  decently  and  simply,  among  the  other  unostentatious  me 
morials  of  the  humble  dead. 

The  inscription  merely  gave  the  name  and  age  of  the  deceased, 
and  told  that  the  stone  had  been  erected  “by  his  affectionate  sons.” 
The  sight  of  these  words  seemed  to  soften  the  displeasure  of  the 
angry  man,  and  he  said,  somewhat  more  mildly,  “Yes,  we  were 
his  affectionate  sons,  and  since  my  name  is  on  the  stone,  I am  sat- 
isfied, brother.  We  have  not  drawn  together  kindly  of  late  years, 
and  perhaps  never  may;  but  I acknowledge  and  respect  your  worth ; 
and  here,  before  our  own  friends,  and  before  the  friends  of  our 
father,  with  my  foot  above  his  head,  I express  my  willingness  to 
be  on  other  and  better  terms  with  you,  and  if  we  can  not  command 
love  in  our  hearts,  let  us,  at  least,  brother,  bar  out  all  unkindness.” 

The  minister,  who  had  attended  the  funeral,  and  had  some- 
thing intrusted  to  him  to  say  publicly  before  he  left  the  church- 
yard, now  came  forward,  and  asked  the  elder  brother  why  he 
spake  not  regarding  this  matter.  He  saw  that  there  was  something 
of  a cold  and  sullen  pride  rising  up  in  his  heart,  for  not  easily  may 
any  man  hope  to  dismiss  from  the  chamber  of  his  heart  ever  the 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


383 


vilest  guest,  if  once  cherished  there.  With  a solemn,  and  almost 
severe  air,  he  looked  upon  the  relenting  man,  and  then,  changing 
his  countenance  into  serenity,  said  gently — 

“Behold  how  good  a thing  it  is, 

And  how  becoming  well, 

Together  such  as  brethren  are. 

In  unity  to  dwell.” 

The  time,  the  place,  and  this  beautiful  expression  of  a natural 
sentiment,  quite  overcame  a heart,  in  which  many  kind,  if  not 
warm  affections,  dwelt;  and  the  man  thus  appealed  to,  bowed  down 
his  head  and  wept.  “Give  me  your  hand,  brother;”  and  it  was 
given,  while  a murmur  of  satisfaction  arose  from  all  present,  and 
all  hearts  felt  kindlier  and  more  humanely  toward  other. 

As  the  brothers  stood  fervently,  hut  composedly,  grasping  each 
other’s  hand,  in  the  little  hollow  that  lay  between  the  grave  of 
their  mother,  long  since  dead,  and  of  their  father,  whose  shroud 
was  haply  not  yet  still  from  the  fall  of  dust  to  dust,  the  minister 
stood  beside  them  with  a pleasant  countenance,  and  said,  “I  must 
fulfill  the  promise  I made  to  your  father  on  his  death-bed.  I must 
read  to  you  a few  words  which  his  hand  wrote  at  an  hour  when  his 
tongue  denied  its  office . I must  not  say  that  you  did  your  duty  to 
your  old  father;  for  did  he  not  often  beseech  you,  apart  from  one 
another,  to  be  reconciled,  for  your  own  sakes  as  Christians,  for  his 
sake,  and  for  the  sake  of  the  mother  who  bore  you,  and,  Stephen, 
who  died  that  you  might  be  born?  When  the  palsy  struck  him  for 
the  last  time,  you  were  both  absent,  nor  was  it  your  fault  that  you 
were  not  beside  the  old  man  when  he  died. 

“As  long  as  sense  continued  with  him  here,  did  he  think  of 
you  two,  and  of  you  two  alone.  Tears  were  in  his  eyes;  I saw 
them  there  and  on  his  cheek  too,  when  no  breath  came  from  his 
bps.  But  of  this  no  more.  He  died  with  this  in  his  hand;  and 
he  made  me  know  that  I was  to  read  it  to  you  over  his  grave.  I 
now  obey  him : ‘ My  sons,  if  you  will  let  my  bones  lie  quiet  in  the 
grave,  near  the  dust  of  your  mother,  depart  not  from  my  burial 
till,  in  the  name  of  God  and  Christ,  you  promise  to  love  one 
another  as  you  used  to  do.  Dear  boys,  receive  my  blessing.’  ” 


384 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


Some  turned  their  heads  away  to  hide  the  tears  that  needed 
not  be  hidden,  and  when  the  brothers  had  released  each  other  from 
a long  and  sobbing  embrace,  many  went  up  to  them,  and,  in  a 
single  word  or  two,  expressed  their  joy  at  this  perfect  reconcile- 
ment. The  brothers  themselves  walked  away  from  the  church- 
yard arm  in  arm  with  the  minister  to  the  manse.  On  the  follow- 
ing Sabbath,  they  were  seen  sitting  with  their  families  in  the  same 
pew,  and  it  was  observed  that  they  read  together  off  the  same 
Bible,  when  the  minister  gave  out  the  text,  and  that  they  sang 
together,  taking  hold  of  the  same  psalm-book.  The  same  psalm 
was  sung  (given  out  at  their  own  request)  of  which  one  verse  had 
been  repeated  at  their  father’s  grave;  a larger  sum  than  usual  was, 
on  that  Sabbath,  found  in  the  plate  for  the  poor,  for  Love  and 
Charity  are  sisters.  And  ever  after,  both  during  the  peace  and  the 
troubles  of  this  life,  the  hearts  of  the  brothers  were  as  one,  and  in 
nothing  were  they  divided. 


Escape  of  Harvey  Birch  and  Captain  Wharton. 

The  road  which  it  was  necessary  for  the  peddler  and  the  English 
captain  to  travel,  in  order  to  reach  the  shelter  of  the  hills,  lay,  for 
half  a mile,  in  full  view  from  the  door  of  the  building  that  had  so 
recently  been  the  prison  of  the  latter;  running  for  the  whole  dis- 
tance over  the  rich  plain,  that  spreads  to  the  very  foot  of  the  mount- 
ains, which  here  rise  in  a nearly  perpendicular  ascent  from  their 
bases;  it  then  turned  short  to  the  right,  and  was  obliged  to  follow 
the  windings  of  nature,  as  it  won  its  way  into  the  bosom  of  the 
Highlands. 

To  preserve  the  supposed  difference  in  their  stations,  Harvey 
rode  a short  distance  ahead  of  his  companion,  and  maintained  the 
sober,  dignified  pace,  that  was  suited  to  his  assumed  character. 
On  their  right,  the  regiment  of  foot,  that  we  have  already  men* 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


385 


tioned,  lay  in  tents;  and  the  sentinels,  who  guarded  their  encamp- 
ment, were  to  be  seen  moving,  with  measured  tread,  under  the  skirts 
of  the  hills  themselves.  The  first  impulse  of  Henry  was,  certainly, 
to  urge  the  beast  he  rode  to  his  greatest  speed  at  once,  and  by  a 
coup -de-main,  not  only  to  accomplish  his  escape,  but  relieve  him- 
self from  the  torturing  suspense  of  his  situation.  But  the  forward 
movement  that  the  youth  made  for  this  purpose  was  instantly 
checked  by  the  peddler. 

“Hold  up!”  he  cried,  dexterously  reining  his  own  horse  across 
the  path  of  the  other;  “would  you  ruin  us  both?  Fall  into  the 
place  of  a black  following  his  master.  Did  you  not  see  their 
blooded  chargers,  all  saddled  and  bridled,  standing  in  the  sun  be- 
fore the  house?  How  long  do  you  think  that  miserable  Dutch 
horse  you  are  on  would  hold  his  speed,  if  pursued  by  the  Virginians  ? 
Every  foot  that  we  can  gain  without  giving  the  alarm,  counts  us  a 
day  in  our  lives.  Ride  steadily  after  me,  and  on  no  account  look 
back.  They  are  as  subtle  as  foxes,  ay,  and  as  ravenous  for  blood 
as  wolves.” 

Henry  reluctantly  restrained  his  impatience,  and  followed  the 
direction  of  the  peddler.  His  imagination,  however,  continually 
alarmed  him  with  the  fancied  sounds  of  pursuit;  though  Birch, 
who  occasionally  looked  back  under  the  pretense  of  addressing  his 
companion,  assured  him  that  all  continued  quiet  and  peaceful. 

“But,”  said  Henry,  “it  will  not  be  possible  for  Caesar  to  remain 
long  undiscovered;  had  we  not  better  put  our  horses  to  the  gallop? 
and,  by  the  time  they  can  reflect  on  the  cause  of  our  flight,  we  can 
reach  the  corner  of  the  woods.  ” 

“Ah!  you  little  know  them,  Captain  Wharton,”  returned  the 
peddler;  “there  is  a sergeant  at  this  moment  looking  after  us,  as  if 
he  thought  all  was  not  right;  the  keen-eyed  fellow  watches  me  hke 
a tiger  laying  in  wait  for  his  leap ; when  I stood  on  the  horse  block, 
he  half  suspected  something  was  wrong.  Nay,  check  your  beast; 
we  must  let  the  animals  walk  a little,  for  he  is  laying  his  hand  on 
the  pommel  of  his  saddle;  if  he  mounts  now,  we  are  gone.  The 
foot  soldiers  could  reach  us  with  their  muskets.” 


25 


386 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


“What  does  he  do?”  asked  Henry,  reining  his  horse  into  a 
walk,  but,  at  the  same  time,  pressing  his  heels  into  the  animal’s 
sides,  to  he  in  readiness  for  a spring. 

“He  turns  from  his  charger  and  looks  the  other  way.  Now 
trot  on  gently;  not  so  fast,  not  so  fast;  observe  the  sentinel  in  the 
field  a little  ahead  of  us;  he  eyes  us  keenly.” 

“Never  mind  the  footman,”  said  Henry  impatiently,  “he  can 
do  nothing  but  shoot  us;  whereas  these  dragoons  may  make  me  a 
captive  again.  Surely,  Harvey,  there  are  horsemen  moving  down 
the  road  behind  us.  Do  you  see  nothing  particular?” 

“Humph!”  ejaculated  the  peddler;  “there  is  something  particu- 
lar, indeed,  to  be  seen  behind  the  thicket  on  your  left;  turn  your 
head  a little,  and  you  may  see  and  profit  by  it  too.” 

Henry  eagerly  seized  his  permission  to  look  aside,  and  his 
blood  curdled  to  the  heart  as  he  observed  they  were  passing  a gal- 
lows, that  had  unquestionably  been  erected  for  his  own  execution. 
He  turned  his  face  from  the  sight  in  undisguised  horror. 

“There  is  a warning  to  be  prudent  in  that  bit  of  wood,”  said 
the  peddler,  in  that  sententious  manner  that  he  often  adopted. 

“It  is  a terrific  sight,  indeed!”  cried  Henry,  for  a moment 
veiling  his  face  with  his  hands,  as  if  to  drive  a vision  from  before 
him. 

The  peddler  moved  his  body  partly  around,  and  spoke  with 
energetic  but  gloomy  bitterness — “And  yet,  Captain  Wharton,  you 
see  it  when  the  setting  sun  shines  full  upon  you ; the  air  you  breathe 
is  clear,  and  fresh  from  the  hills  before  you.  Every  step  that  you 
take  leaves  that  hated  gallows  behind;  and  every  dark  hollow,  and 
every  shapeless  rock  in  the  mountains,  offers  you  a hiding  place 
from  the  vengeance  of  your  enemies.  But  I have  seen  the  gibbet 
raised  when  no  place  of  refuge  offered.  Twice  have  I been  buried 
in  dungeons,  where,  fettered  and  in  chains,  I have  passed  nights  in 
torture,  looking  forward  to  the  morning’s  dawn  that  was  to  light 
mi  to  a death  of  infamy.  The  sweat  has  started  from  limbs  that 
seemed  already  drained  of  their  moisture,  and  if  I ventured  to  the 
hole  that  admitted  air  through  grates  of  iron,  to  look  out  upon  the 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


387 


smiles  of  nature,  which  God  has  bestowed  for  the  meanest  of  his 
creatures,  the  gibbet  has  glared  before  my  eyes,  like  an  evil  con- 
science, harrowing  the  soul  of  a dying  man.  Four  times  have  I 
been  in  their  power,  besides  this  last;  but — twice — twice  did  I 
think  that  my  hour  had  come.  It  is  hard  to  die  at  the  best,  Cap- 
tain Wharton;  but  to  spend  your  last  moments  alone  and  unpitied; 
to  know  that  none  near  you  so  much  as  think  of  the  fate  that  is  to 
you  the  closing  of  all  that  is  earthly;  to  think  that  in  a few  hours 
you  are  to  he  led  from  the  gloom — which,  as  you  dwell  on  what 
follows,  becomes  dear  to  you — to  the  face  of  day,  and  there  to  meet 
all  eyes  upon  you,  as  if  you  were  a wild  beast;  and  to  lose  sight 
of  everything  amidst  the  jeers  and  scoffs  of  your  fellow  creatures; 
— that,  Captain  Wharton,  is  indeed  to  die.” 

Henry  listened  in  amazement,  as  his  companion  uttered  this 
speech  with  a vehemence  altogether  new  to  him.  Both  seemed  to 
have  forgotten  their  danger  and  their  disguises,  as  he  cried — 
“What!  were  you  ever  so  near  death  as  that?” 

“Have  I not  been  the  hunted  beast  of  these  hills  for  three  years 
past?”  resumed  Harvey,  “and  once  they  even  led  me  to  the  foot  of 
the  gallows  itself,  and  I escaped  only  by  an  alarm  from  the  royal 
troops.  Had  they  been  a quarter  of  an  hour  later,  I must  have 
died.  There  was  I placed,  in  the  midst  of  unfeeling  men,  and  gap- 
ing women  and  children,  as  a monster  to  he  cursed.  When  I 
would  pray  to  God,  my  ears  were  insulted  with  the  history  of  my 
crimes;  and  when,  in  all  that  multitude,  I looked  around  for  a sin- 
gle face  that  showed  me  any  pity,  I could  find  none — no,  not  even 
one — all  cursed  me  as  a wretch  who  would  sell  his  country  for  gold. 
The  sun  was  brighter  to  my  eyes  than  common — but  then  it  was 
the  last  time  I should  see  it.  The  fields  were  gay  and  pleasant, 
and  everything  seemed  as  if  this  world  was  a kind  of  heaven.  Oh ! 
how  sweet  life  was  to  me  at  that  moment!  ’Twas  a dreadful  hour, 
Captain  Wharton,  and  such  as  you  have  never  known.  You  have 
friends  to  feel  for  you ; but  I had  none  but  a father  to  mourn  my 
loss  when  he  might  hear  of  it;  there  was  no  pity,  no  consolation 
near  to  soothe  my  anguish.  Everything  seemed  to  have  deserted 
me — I even  thought  that  He  had  forgotten  that  I lived.” 


388 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


“What!  did  yon  feel  that  God  had  forsaken  yon,  Harvey?” 
cried  the  youth,  with  strong  sympathy. 

“God  never  forsakes  his  servants,”  returned  Birch,  with  rever- 
ence, and  exhibiting  naturally  a devotion  that  hitherto  he  had  only 
assumed. 

“And  who  did  you  mean  by  He?” 

The  peddler  raised  himself  in  his  saddle  to  the  stiff  and  upright 
posture  that  was  suited  to  the  outward  appearance.  The  look  of 
fire,  that,  for  a short  time,  glowed  upon  his  countenance,  disap- 
peared in  the  solemn  lines  of  unbending  self-abasement,  and, 
speaking  as  if  addressing  a negro,  he  replied:  — 

“In  heaven,  there  is  no  distinction  of  color,  my  brother;  there- 
fore you  have  a precious  charge  within  you,  that  you  must  hereafter 
render  an  account  of,” — dropping  his  voice;  “this  is  the  last  senti- 
nel near  the  road;  look  not  back,  as  you  value  your  life.” 

Henry  remembered  his  situation,  and  instantly  assumed  the 
humble  demeanor  of  his  adopted  character.  The  unaccountable 
energy  of  the  peddler’s  manner  was  soon  forgotten  in  the  sense  of 
his  own  immediate  danger;  and  with  the  recollection  of  his  critical 
situation  returned  all  the  uneasiness  that  he  had  momentarily  for- 
gotten. 

“What  see  you,  Harvey?”  he  cried,  observing  the  peddler  to 
gaze  toward  the  building  they  had  left,  with  ominous  interest; 
“what  see  you  at  the  house?” 

“That  which  bodes  no  good  to  us,”  returned  the  pretended 
priest.  “Throw  aside  the  mask  and  wig — you  will  need  all  your 
senses  without  much  delay — throw  them  in  the  road;  there  are 
none  before  us  that  I dread,  but  there  are  those  behind  us,  who  will 
give  us  a fearful  race.  ” 

“Nay,  then,”  cried  the  captain,  casting  the  implements  of  his 
disguise  into  the  highway,  “let  us  improve  our  time  to  the  utmost; 
we  want  a full  quarter  to  the  turn;  why  not  push  for  it  at  once?” 

“Be  cool — they  are  in  alarm,  but  they  will  not  mount  without 
an  officer,  unless  they  see  us  fly — now  he  comes — he  moves  to  the 
stables — trot  briskly— a dozen  are  in  their  saddles,  but  the  officer 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


889 


stops  to  tighten  his  girths — they  hope  to  steal  a march  upon  us — 
he  is  mounted — now  ride,  Captain  Wharton,  for  your  life,  and  keep 
at  my  heels.  If  you  quit  me  you  will  he  lost.” 

A second  request  was  unnecessary.  The  instant  that  Harvey 
put  his  horse  to  his  speed,  Captain  Wharton  was  at  his  heels,  urg- 
ing the  miserable  animal  that  he  rode  to  the  utmost.  Birch  had 
selected  the  beast  on  which  he  rode,  and,  although  vastly  inferior 
to  the  high-fed  and  blooded  chargers  of  the  dragoons,  still  it  was 
much  superior  to  the  little  pony  that  had  been  thought  good 
enough  to  carry  Caesar  Thompson  on  an  errand.  A very  few 
jumps  convinced  the  captain  that  his  companion  was  fast  leaving 
him,  and  a fearful  glance  that  he  threw  behind  informed  the  fugi- 
tive that  his  enemies  were  as  speedily  approaching.  With  that 
abandonment  that  makes  misery  doubly  grievous,  when  it  is  to  be 
supported  alone,  Henry  called  aloud  to  the  peddler  not  to  desert 
him.  Harvey  instantly  drew  up,  and  suffered  his  companion  to 
run  alongside  of  his  own  horse.  The  cocked  hat  and  wig  of  the 
peddler  fell  from  his  head  the  moment  that  his  steed  began  to  move 
briskly,  and  this  development  of  their  disguise,  as  it  might  he 
termed,  was  witnessed  by  the  dragoons,  who  announced  their  ob- 
servation by  a boisterous  shout,  that  seemed  to  be  uttered  in  the 
very  ears  of  the  fugitives — so  loud  was  the  cry,  and  so  short  the 
distance  between  them. 

“Had  we  not  better  leave  our  horses,”  said  Henry,  “and  make 
for  the  hills  across  the  fields  on  our  left? — the  fence  will  stop  our 
pursuers.” 

“That  way  lies  the  gallows,”  returned  the  peddler;  “these  fel- 
lows go  three  feet  to  our  two,  and  would  mind  those  fences  no  more 
than  we  do  these  ruts;  but  it  is  a short  quarter  to  the  turn,  and 
there  are  two  roads  behind  the  wood.  They  may  stand  to  choose 
until  they  can  take  the  track,  and  we  shall  gain  a little  upon  them 
there.” 

“But  this  miserable  horse  is  blown  already,”  cried  Henry,  urg- 
ing his  beast  with  the  end  of  his  bridle,  at  the  same  time  Harvey 
aided  his  efforts  by  applying  the  lash  of  a heavy  riding  whip  that 
he  carried;  “he  will  never  stand  it  for  half  a mile  further.” 


390 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


“A  quarter  will  do — a quarter  will  do,”  said  the  pedler,  “a  sin- 
gle quarter  will  save  us,  if  you  follow  my  directions.” 

Somewhat  cheered  by  the  cool  and  confident  manner  of  his 
companion,  Henry  continued  silently  urging  his  horse  forward.  A 
few  moments  brought  them  to  the  desired  turn,  and,  as  they 
doubled  round  a point  of  low  under-brush,  the  fugitives  caught  a 
glimpse  of  their  pursuers  scattered  along  the  highway.  Mason  and 
the  sergeant,  being  better  mounted  than  the  rest  of  the  party,  were 
much  nearer  to  their  heels  than  even  the  peddler  thought  could  be 
possible. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hills,  and  for  some  distance  up  the  dark  val- 
ley that  wound  among  the  mountains,  a thick  underwood  of  sap- 
lings had  been  suffered  to  shoot  up,  when  the  heavier  growth  was 
felled  for  the  sake  of  fuel.  At  the  sight  of  this  cover,  Henry  again 
urged  the  peddler  to  dismount,  and  to  plunge  into  the  woods;  but 
his  request  was  promptly  refused.  The  two  roads  above  mentioned 
met  at  a very  sharp  angle,  at  a short  distance  from  the  turn,  and 
both  were  circuitous,  so  that  but  little  of  either  could  be  seen  at  a 
time.  The  peddler  took  the  one  which  led  to  the  left,  but  held  it 
only  a moment,  for,  on  reaching  a partial  opening  in  the  thicket, 
he  darted  across  the  right  hand  path,  and  led  the  way  up  a steep 
ascent,  which  lay  directly  before  them.  This  manoeuver  saved 
them.  On  reaching  the  fork,  the  dragoons  followed  the  track,  and 
passed  the  spot  where  the  fugitives  had  crossed  to  the  other  road, 
before  they  missed  the  marks  of  the  footsteps.  Their  loud  cries 
were  heard  by  Henry  and  the  peddler,  as  their  wearied  and  breath- 
less animals  toiled  up  the  hill,  ordering  their  comrades  in  the  rear 
to  ride  in  the  right  direction.  The  captain  again  proposed  to  leave 
their  horses,  and  dash  into  the  thicket. 

“Not  yet — not  yet,”  said  Birch,  in  a low  voice;  “the  road  falls 
from  the  top  of  this  hill  as  steep  as  it  rises — first  let  us  gain  the  top.” 
While  speaking  they  reached  the  desired  summit,  and  both  threw 
themselves  from  their  horses.  Henry  plunged  into  the  thick  under- 
wood, which  covered  the  side  of  the  mountain  for  some  distance 
above  them.  Harvey  stopped  to  give  each  of  their  beasts  a few 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


391 


severe  blows  of  his  whip,  that  drove  them  headlong  down  the  path 
on  the  other  side  of  the  eminence,  and  then  followed  his  example. 

The  peddler  entered  the  thicket  with  a little  caution,  and  avoided, 
as  much  as  possible,  rustling  or  breaking  the  branches  in  his  way. 
There  was  but  time  only  to  shelter  his  person  from  view,  when  a 
dragoon  led  up  tlie  ascent,  and,  on  reaching  the  height,  he  cried 
aloud : — 

“I  saw  one  of  their  horses  turning  the  hill  this  minute.” 
“Drive  on — spur  forward,  my  lads,”  shouted  Mason,  “give  the 
Englishman  quarter,  but  cut  down  the  peddler,  and  make  an  end  of 
him.” 

Henry  felt  his  companion  gripe  his  arm  hard,  as  he  listened  in 
a great  tremor  to  this  cry,  which  was  followed  by  the  passage  of  a 
dozen  horsemen,  with  a vigor  and  speed  that  showed  too  plainly 
how  little  security  their  over-tired  steeds  could  have  afforded  them. 

“Now,”  said  the  peddler,  rising  from  his  cover  to  reconnoiter, 
and  standing  for  a moment  in  suspense,  “all  that  we  gain  is  clear 
gain;  for,  as  we  go  up,  they  go  down.  Let  us  be  stirring.” 

“But  will  they  not  follow  us,  and  surround  this  mountain?” 
said  Henry,  rising,  and  imitating  the  labored  but  rapid  progress  of 
his  companion;  “remember  they  have  foot  as  well  as  horse,  and  at 
any  rate  we  shall  starve  in  the  hills.” 

“Fear  nothing,  Captain  Wharton,”  returned  the  peddler  with 
confidence;  “this  is  not  the  mountain  that  I would  be  on,  but 
necessity  has  made  me  a dexterous  pilot  among  these  hills.  I will 
lead  you  where  no  man  will  dare  to  follow.  See,  the  sun  is  already 
setting  behind  the  tops  of  the  western  mountains,  and  it  will  be 
two  hours  to  the  rising  of  the  moon.  Who,  think  you,  will  follow 
us  far,  on  a November  night,  among  these  rocks  and  precipices?” 
“But  listen!”  exclaimed  Henry;  “the  dragoons  are  shouting  to 
each  other — they  miss  us  already.” 

“Come  to  the  point  of  this  rock,  and  you  may  see  them,”  said 
Harvey,  composedly  setting  himself  down  to  rest.  “Nay,  they  can 
see  us — notice,  they  are  pointing  up  with  their  fingers.  There!  one 
has  fired  his  pistol,  but  the  distance  is  too  great  for  even  a musket 
to  carry  upward.” 


392 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


“They  will  pursue  us,”  cried  the  impatient  Henry;  “let  us  be 
moving.  ” 

“They  will  not  think  of  such  a thing,55  returned  the  peddler, 
picking  the  chickerberries  that  grew  on  the  thin  soil  where  he  sat, 
and  very  deliberately  chewing  them,  leaves  and  all,  to  refresh  his 
mouth.  “What  progress  could  they  make  here,  in  their  boots  and 
spurs,  with  their  long  swords,  or  even  pistols?  No,  no — they  may 
go  back  and  turn  out  the  foot;  but  the  horse  pass  through  these 
defiles,  when  they  can  keep  the  saddle,  with  fear  and  trembling. 
Come,  follow  me,  Captain  Wharton;  we  have  a troublesome  march 
before  us,  hut  I will  bring  you  where  none  will  think  of  venturing 
this  night.” 

So  saying,  they  both  arose,  and  were  soon  hid  from  view 
amongst  the  rocks  and  caverns  of  the  mountain. 


Chesterfield's  Letters  to  his  Son. 

X 

Dear  Boy: — Pleasure  is  the  rock  which  most  young  people 
split  upon;  they  launch  out  with  crowded  sails  in  quest  of  it,  but 
without  a compass  to  direct  their  course,  or  reason  sufficient  to 
steer  the  vessel;  for  want  of  which,  pain  and  shame,  instead  of 
pleasure,  are  the  returns  of  their  voyage.  Do  not  think  that  I 
mean  to  snarl  at  pleasure,  like  a Stoic,  or  to  preach  against  it,  like 
a parson;  no,  I mean  to  point  it  out  and  recommend  it  to  you,  like 
an  Epicurean ; I wish  you  a great  deal,  and  my  only  view  is  to  hin- 
der you  from  mistaking  it. 

The  character  which  most  young  men  first  aim  at,  is  that  of  a 
man  of  pleasure;  but  they  generally  take  it  upon  trust;  and,  in- 
stead of  consulting  their  own  taste  and  inclinations,  they  blindly 
adopt  whatever  those,  with  whom  they  chiefly  converse,  are  pleased 
to  call  by  the  name  of  pleasure;  and  a man  of  pleasure,  in  the  vul* 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


393 


gar  acceptation  of  that  phrase,  means  only  a beastly  drunkard, 
and  a profligate  swearer  and  curser.  As  it  may  be  of  use  to  you, 
I am  not  unwilling,  though  at  the  same  time  ashamed,  to  own, 
that  the  vices  of  my  youth  proceeded  much  more  from  my  silly 
resolution  of  being  what  I heard  called  a man  of  pleasure,  than 
from  my  own  inclinations.  I always  naturally  hated  drinking; 
and  yet  I have  often  drunk,  with  disgust  at  the  time,  attended  by 
great  sickness  the  next  day,  only  because  I then  considered  drink- 
ing as  a necessary  qualification  for  a fine  gentleman  and  a man  of 
pleasure. 

The  same  as  to  gaming.  I did  not  want  money,  and  conse 
quently  had  no  occasion  to  play  for  it ; but  I thought  play  another 
necessary  ingredient  in  the  composition  of  a man  of  pleasure,  and 
accordingly  I plunged  into  it  without  desire  at  first,  sacrificed  a 
thousand  real  pleasures  to  it,  and  made  myself  solidly  uneasy  by 
it,  for  thirty  of  the  best  years  of  my  life. 

I was  even  absurd  enough,  for  a little  while,  to  swear,  by  way 
of  adorning  and  completing  the  shining  character  which  I affected ; 
but  this  folly  I soon  laid  aside,  upon  finding  both  the  guilt  and  the 
indecence  of  it. 

Thus  seduced  by  fashion,  and  blindly  adopting  nominal  pleas- 
ures I lost  real  ones;  and  my  fortune  impaired  and  my  constitu- 
tion shattered  are,  I must  confess,  the  just  punishment  of  my 
errors.  Take  warning  by  them;  choose  your  pleasures  for  yourself 
and  do  not  let  them  be  imposed  upon  you.  Follow  nature  and  not 
fashion;  weigh  the  present  enjoyment  of  your  pleasures  against 
the  necessary  consequences  of  them,  and  then  let  your  own  com- 
mon sense  determine  your  choice. 

Were  I to  begin  the  world  again,  with  the  experience  which  I 
now  have  of  it,  I would  lead  a life  of  real,  not  of  imaginary 
pleasure.  I would  enjoy  the  pleasures  of  the  table  and  of  wine, 
but  stop  short  of  the  pains  inseparably  annexed  to  an  excess  ?n 
either.  I would  not,  at  twenty  years,  be  a preaching  missionary 
of  abstemiousness  and  sobriety ; and  I should  let  other  people  do 
as  they  would,  without  formally  and  sententiously  rebuking  them 


394 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


of  it;  but  I would  be  most  firmly  resolved  not  to  destroy  my  own 
faculties  and  constitution,  in  complaisance  to  those  who  have  no 
regard  to  their  own.  I would  play  to  give  me  pleasure,  but  not  to 
give  me  pain;  that  is,  I would  play  for  trifles,  in  mixed  companies, 
to  amuse  myself,  and  conform  to  custom;  but  I would  take  care 
not  to  venture  for  sums,  which,  if  I won,  I should  not  be  the  bet- 
ter for,  but,  if  I lost,  should  be  under  a difficulty  to  pay,  and,  when 
paid,  would  oblige  me  to  retrench  in  several  other  articles.  Not  to 
mention  the  quarrels  which  deep  play  commonly  occasions. 

I would  pass  some  of  my  time  in  reading,  and  the  rest  in  the 
company  of  people  of  sense  and  learning,  and  chiefly  those  above 
me;  and  I would  frequent  the  mixed  companies  of  men  and 
women  of  fashion,  which,  though  often  frivolous,  yet  unbend  and 
refresh  the  mind,  not  uselessly,  because  they  certainly  polish  and 
soften  the  manners. 

These  would  be  my  pleasures  and  amusements,  if  I were  to 
live  the  last  thirty  years  over  again ; they  are  rational  ones ; and 
moreover  I will  tell  you,  they  are  really  the  fashionable  ones ; for 
the  others  are  not,  in  truth,  the  pleasures  of  what  I call  people  of 
fashion,  but  of  those  who  only  call  themselves  so.  Does  good 
company  care  to  have  a man  reeling  drunk  among  them?  or  to  see 
another  tearing  his  hair,  and  blaspheming,  for  having  lost,  at  play, 
more  than  he  is  able  to  pay?  No;  those  who  practice,  and  much 
more,  those  who  brag  of  them,  make  no  part  of  good  company; 
and  are  most  unwillingly,  if  ever,  admitted  into  it.  A real  man  of 
fashion  and  pleasure  observes  decency ; at  least  neither  borrows  nor 
affects  vices ; and  if  he  unfortunately  has  any,  he  gratifies  them 
with  choice,  delicacy  and  secrecy. 

II 

Deak  Boy: — People  of  your  age  have  commonly  an  unguarded 
frankness  about  them,  which  makes  them  the  easy  prey  and  bubble 
of  the  artful  and  the  experienced;  they  look  upon  every  knave  or 
fool  who  tells  them  that  he  is  their  friend,  to  be  really  so;  and 


TEEASUEES  FEOM  THE  PEOSE  WOELD. 


395 


pay  that  profession  of  simulated  friendship  with  an  indiscreet  and 
unbounded  confidence,  always  to  their  loss,  often  to  their  ruin. 
Beware,  therefore,  now  that  you  are  coming  into  the  world,  of 
these  proffered  friendships.  Receive  them  with  great  civility,  but 
with  great  incredulity,  too;  and  pay  them  with  compliments,  but 
not  with  confidence.  Do  not  let  your  vanity  and  self-love  make 
you  suppose  that  people  become  your  friends  at  first  sight,  or  even 
upon  a short  acquaintance.  Real  friendship  is  a slow  grower,  and 
never  thrives,  unless  ingrafted  upon  a stock  of  known  and  recipro- 
cal merit.  There  is  another  kind  of  nominal  friendship  among 
young  people,  which  is  warm  for  the  time,  but,  by  good  luck,  of 
short  duration.  This  friendship  is  hastily  produced,  by  their  being 
accidentally  thrown  together,  and  pursuing  the  same  course  of  riot 
and  debauchery.  A fine  friendship,  truly!  and  well  cemented  by 
drunkenness  and  lewdness.  It  should  rather  be  called  a conspiracy 
against  good  morals  and  good  manners,  and  be  punished  as  such 
by  the  civil  magistrate.  However,  they  have  the  impudence  and 
the  folly  to  call  this  confederacy  a friendship.  They  lend  one 
another  money  for  bad  purposes;  they  engage  in  quarrels,  offen- 
sive and  defensive,  for  their  accomplices ; they  tell  one  another  all 
they  know,  and  often  more  too;  when,  of  a sudden,  some  accident 
disperses  them,  and  they  think  no  more  of  each  other,  unless  it  be 
to  betray  and  laugh  at  their  imprudent  confidence.  Remember  to 
make  a great  difference  between  companions  and  friends ; for  a 
very  complaisant  and  agreeable  companion  may  be,  and  very  often 
proves,  a very  improper,  and  a very  dangerous,  friend.  People 
will,  in  a great  degree,  and  not  without  reason,  form  their  opinion 
of  you,  upon  that  which  they  have  of  your  friends ; and  there  is  a 
Spanish  proverb,  which  says  very  justly,  “Tell  me  whom  you  live 
with,  and  I will  tell  you  who  you  are.”  One  may  fairly  suppose, 
that  a man  who  makes  a knave  or  a fool  his  friend,  has  something 
very  bad  to  do  or  to  conceal.  But,  at  the  same  time  that  you  care- 
fully decline  the  friendship  of  knaves  and  fools,  if  it  can  be  called 
friendship,  there  is  no  occasion  to  make  either  of  them  your 
enemies,  wantonly  and  unprovoked;  for  they  are  numerous  bodies; 


896 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


and  I would  rather  choose  a secure  neutrality  than  an  alliance  or 
war  with  either  of  them.  You  may  be  a declared  enemy  to  their 
vices  and  follies,  without  being  marked  out  by  them  as  a personal 
one.  Their  enmity  is  the  next  dangerous  thing  to  their  friendship. 
Have  a real  reserve  with  almost  everybody;  and  have  a seeming 
reserve  with  almost  nobody;  for  it  is  very  disagreeable  to  seem 
reserved,  and  very  dangerous  not  to  be  so.  Few  people  find  the 
true  medium;  many  are  ridiculously  mysterious  and  reserved 
upon  trifles,  and  many  imprudently  communicative  of  all  they 
know. 

The  next  to  the  choice  of  your  friends  is  the  choice  of  your 
company.  Endeavor,  as  much  as  you  can,  to  keep  company  with 
people  above  you.  There  you  rise  as  much  as  you  sink  with  peo- 
ple below  you;  for  (as  I have  mentioned  before)  you  are,  whatever 
the  company  you  keep  is.  Do  not  mistake,  when  I say,  company 
above  you,  and  think  that  I mean  with  regard  to  their  birth;  that 
is  the  least  consideration;  hut  I mean,  witli  regard  to  their  merit, 
and  the  light  in  which  the  world  considers  them. 

There  are  two  sorts  of  good  company;  one  which  is  called 
the  beau  monde , and  consists  of  those  people  who  have  the  lead  in 
courts  and  in  the  gay  part  of  life;  the  other  consists  of  those  who 
are  distinguished  by  some  peculiar  merit,  or  who  excel  in  some 
particular  and  valuable  art  or  science.  For  my  own  part,  I used 
to  think  myself  in  company  as  much  above  me,  when  I was  with 
Mr.  Addison  and  Mr.  Pope,  as  if  1 had  been  with  all  the  princes 
in  Europe.  What  I mean  by  low  company,  which  should  by  all 
means  be  avoided,  is  the  company  of  those,  who,  absolutely  insig- 
nificant and  contemptible  in  themselves,  think  they  are  honored 
by  being  in  your  company,  and  who  flatter  every  vice  and  every 
folly  you  have,  in  order  to  engage  you  to  converse  with  them.  The 
pride  of  being  the  first  of  the  company,  is  hut  too  common ; hut 
it  is  very  silly  and  very  prejudicial.  Nothing  in  the  world  lets 
down  a character  more  than  that  wrong  turn. 

You  may  possibly  ask  me  whether  a man  has  it  always  in  his 
power  to  get  into  the  best  company?  and  how?  I say,  yes,  he  has, 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


397 


by  deserving  it;  provided  he  is  but  in  circumstances  which  enable 
him  to  appear  upon  the  footing  of  a gentleman.  Merit  and  good 
breeding  will  make  their  way  everywhere.  Knowledge  will  intro- 
duce him,  and  good  breeding  will  endear  .him,  to  the  best  compa- 
nies ; for,  as  I have  often  told  you,  politeness  and  good  breeding 
are  absolutely  necessary  to  adorn  any  or  all  other  good  qualities  or 
talents.  Without  them,  no  knowledge,  no  profession  whatever,  is 
seen  in  the  best  light.  The  scholar  without  good  breeding  is  a ped- 
ant; the  philosopher,  a cynic;  the  soldier,  a brute,  and  every  man 
disagreeable. 


Dog-Days. 

Doubtless  they  have  their  uses,  but  they  are  not  agreeable. 
That  must  be  conceded.  There  is  no  out-doors.  You  wake  in  the 
morning  with  a mild  sense  of  strangulation,  though  all  your  win- 
dows are  open  at  top  and  bottom.  You  thrust  your  head  out  into 
the  morning  air,  but  there  isn’t  any.  It  has  all  run  to  fog.  Fog 
lies  heavy  and  gray  on  the  grass.  Trees  and  hills  and  fences  are 
smothered  in  fog.  It  creeps  into  your  house,  tarnishes  all  your 
gilt,  swells  your  drawers  and  doors  so  that  you  can’t  open  them, 
and  when  you  have  opened  them  you  can’t  shut  them.  It  breathes 
upon  your  muslin  curtains,  and  they  turn  into  limpsy  strings.  It 
steals  into  your  closet,  and  little  blue  specks  and  white  feathery 
spots  appear  on  your  pies.  A pungent  taste  develops  itself  in  your 
pound  cake.  The  stray  cup-custard  filched  from  the  general  larder 
for  private  circulation  is  a keen  and  acid  disappointment.  Milk 
refuses  to  curdle  into  cheese,  and  cream  will  tumble  about  in  your 
chum  for  hours,  and  come  out  mitigated  buttermilk  at  last. 

Flies  are  rampant.  If  the  cover  is  left  off  the  sugar-bowl,  a 
colony  of  flies  take  immediate  possession.  If  your  bare  arm  hap- 
pens to  be  carrying  a vase  of  flowers  with  special  care,  a fly  lights 
on  your  elbow,  and  proceeds  by  short  and  easy  stages  (to  him)  to 


398 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


your  wrist.  If  you  are  writing,  a horde  of  flies  institute  an  inves- 
tigation of  your  head  and  hands,  with  a special  commission  for 
your  nose.  You  brush  them  off,  and  they  only  rub  their  fore-legs 
together,  boh  their  heads,  brush  down  their  wings,  and  go  at  it 
again.  Your  kitchen  ceiling  looks  like  huckleberries  and  milk. 
All  the  while  it  is  very  warm,  but  not  so  warm  as  it  is  sticky,  only 
the  stickiness  is  all  on  the  outside.  Within,  you  feel  a constant 
tendency  to  fall  to  pieces,  because  there  isn’t  brace  enough  in  the 
air  to  hold  you  together.  If  we  were  English,  we  should  say  it 
was  nasty  weather.  Being  Americans,  we  only  sigh,  “Dog-days!” 

But  they  must  have  their  uses.  Everything  is  good  for  some- 
thing. Let  us  see.  First,  they  are  excellent  for  the  complexion — 
a matter  in  which,  whatever  we  say,  we  are  all  more  or  less  inter- 
ested. Bile-y,  jaundice-y,  sallow  faces  clear  up  into  healthy  tints. 
Freckles  “try  out.”  Pale  cheeks  tone  up  into  delicate  rose,  and 
dry,  parched,  burning  flushes  tone  down  to  a cool  liquescence.  All 
the  pores  are  opened,  and  the  whole  system  languishes  in  a pleas- 
ant helplessness — pleasant,  if  one  has  been  so  industrious  all  the 
year,  that  he  can  afford  to  be  idle  during  the  dog-days. 

Dog-days  are  good  as  tests.  Their  effect  on  curl-paper  curls 
is  melancholy,  hut  natural  curls  laugh  them  to  scorn,  and  riot  in 
twistings.  Just  so  the  temper.  Placidity  at  Christmas  often  dis- 
solves in  an  August  fog.  What  you  thought  was  amiability,  may 
have  been  only  oxygen.  If  you  wish  to  see  whether  your  temper 
can  really  bear  the  strains  of  wind  and  weather,  just  remember 
how  you  went  to  the  middle  drawer  in  your  bureau  for  gloves,  fear- 
ing you  should  he  too  late  for  the  cars — how  the  drawer  would  only 
come  out  by  hitches,  first  one  side,  then  the  other,  and  then  not  at 
all, — how  you  thrust  in  your  hand  up  to  the  wrist,  and  could  just 
not  reach  the  gloves  with  the  end  of  your  longest  finger,  while 
your  wrist  was  tortured  by  the  sharp  edge  of  the  drawer  on  one 
side,  and  the  sharp  edge  of  the  bureau  on  the  other.  Did  you 
possess  your  soul  in  patience?  When  a shower  came  suddenly 
pelting  down  through  the  fog,  and  you  tried  to  close  the  window, 
and  got  yourself  wet  through  for  your  pains,  and  couldn’t  move  it 
an  inch  for  all  your  shaking  and  pounding, — when  you  put  your 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


399 


cake  into  the  oven  to  “scald,”  and  forgot  it,  till  a sense  of  some- 
thing burning  traveled  upstairs  to  stir  your  passivity,  and  you 
rushed  down  to  snatch  too  late  a burnt  and  blackened  loaf, — did 
you  remember  the  first  three  words  of  Psalm  xxxvii,  1 ? 

In  the  calm  complacency  of  a balmy  Spring  morning,  we  look 
down  with  a serene  smile  on  the  follies  of  the  world.  We  assume 
a calm  and  quiet  superiority,  give  it  a pat  on  the  shoulder,  and 
say,  condescendingly : “Yes,  .you  will  do  very  well;  a little  rickety 
in  the  joints;  a slight  softening  of  the  brain;  but  very  passable 
for  your  age.”  Nothing  can  exceed  our  amiability  when  we  are 
pleased  and  comfortable;  but,  floundering  up  to  the  neck  in  July; 
keeping  the  breath  of  life  in  us  only  by  becoming  amphibious  and 
web-footed;  bound  to  the  earth  by  no  stronger  tie  than  ice-cream 
and  sherbet;  wooing  to  our  side  every  passing  breeze,  as  if  it  were 
the  king’s  daughter, — then,  a beflowered,  bespangled,  bedizened 
abomination,  coming  betwixt  the  wind  and  our  nobility,  is  the 
spear  of  Ithuriel  to  our  smiling  good  nature,  and  we  feel  disposed 
to  pluck  its  eyes  out  with  a demoniac  delight. 

Dog-days  can  teach  us  trust.  You  have  heard  of  the  woman 
who,  when  her  horse  ran  away,  trusted  to  Providence  till  the 
breeching  broke.  A good  deal  of  our  trust  is  like  this.  We  call 
it  Providence,  but  it  is  really  breeching.  Not  that  breeching  is 
not  a very  good  thing  to  trust  to  as  far  as  it  goes, — only  it  is  not 
Providence.  So,  when  our  doors  can  be  bolted  and  locked,  we  lie 
down  in  peace  and  sleep;  but  when  they  won’t  go  to,  and  we  have 
to  make  a precarious  arrangement  of  sticks  and  strings,  we  feel 
more  keenly  that  we  awake  because  the  Lord  sustained  us. 

Dog-days  are  friendly  to  greenness.  Our  lawns  smile  with 
velvet  verdure.  The  fog  goes  into  the  soil  and  wraps  it  around 
the  tender  strawberry-vines  that  we  have  just  transplanted,  and  in 
soft  swaddling-clothes  the  young  fruit  will  slumber  till  next  Sum- 
mer’s sun  shall  bid  it  leap  to  luxuriant  life,  and  a creamy  and  glo- 
rious death.  Down  into  the  heart  of  the  sweet-pea,  deep  into  the 
cup  of  the  morning-glory,  steals  the  kindly  mist,  and  a pink  and 
purple  splendor  crowns  the  rising  day.  The  cucumber  swells  its 
prickly  sides  and  snuffs  the  coming  vinegar.  The  squash-vine 


400 


TREASURES  FROM  THE  PROSE  WORLD. 


creeps  along  the  ground,  sorrowing  that  it  has  all  turned  to  pump- 
kin, but  catching  from  the  moist  air  a deeper  shade  for  the  gener- 
ous gold  of  its  blossom.  Ah ! in  the  laboratories  of  nature  the  fog 
has  a great  work  to  do. 

But  the  best  of  dog-days  is  their  departing.  Grateful  for  the 
returning  sun  and  the  sweet  west  wind,  we  see  a deeper  blue  in 
the  sky,  and  a denser  green  in  the  fields.  The  tall  corn  waves 
with  a statelier  grace.  The  trees  are  fretted  with  fresh -springing 
life.  The  earth  is  a billowy  and  dimpled  emerald,  tender  and 
smiling;  hut  the  sky, — the  ever-shifting  sky, — is  an  absorbing  and 
perpetual  joy.  Sometimes  its  sweep  of  stainless  blue  is  glorious 
afar.  Then  the  dying  sun  leaves  its  legacy  in  the  west,  of  saffron 
and  amber  and  pale  green.  Now  the  clouds  sail  out  white  and 
warm  into  the  central  blue,  or  rush  exultant,  whirling-up  masses 
of  lavender  rimmed  with  gold,  or  shoot  from  the  glowing  west, 
spires  of  rosy  pink,  or  mount  to  the  zenith,  in  delicate  shells  of 
pearl,  or  lie  above  the  horizon,  passionate,  breathless,  and  ruddy, 
floating  in  seas  of  fire.  Anon  they  group  themselves  in  all  fantas- 
tic shapes.  A turreted  castle  sends  down  shafts  of  light  from  its 
pearly  gates.  The  mailed  warrior  places  his  lance  in  rest,  and  a 
couchant  lion 

“Scatters  across  the  sunset  air 
The  golden  radiance  of  his  hair.” 

“Cloud-land!  Gorgeous  land!”  All  grace  of  outline,  all  wealth 
of  color,  are  gathered  there.  Tropical  splendor  and  heavenly 
purity  kiss  each  other,  and  the  angels  of  God  can  almost  be  seen 
ascending  and  descending. 

So,  gazing  with  thankful  and  reverent  hearts,  we  remember 
that  great  city,  the  holy  Jerusalem,  descending  out  of  heaven  from 
God,  whose  light  is  like  unto  a stone  most  precious,  for  the  glory 
of  God  doth  lighten  it,  and  the  Lamb  is  the  light  thereof. 

So,  when  the  west  winds  come  laden  with  fragrance  from  the 
prairies,  and  the  cold  winds  blow  down  from  the  north,  bearing  us 
healing  and  strength,  we  will  gird  up  our  loins  anew  to  the  work  of 
the  Lord  of  fight,  contented  to  rest  and  stand  in  our  lot  at  the  end 
of  the  days. 


& , ' c m 

m*  • , -^BfUBmOk  ^jjgpfc.  0-:  v ' ' : ' :« 

^ "4  JV  ' S3  /:•  > • '::.  M ••■'; 


